


Nothing But Trouble

by ellipsometry



Series: mouthful of diamonds [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Heist AU, M/M, Yakuza, crimes guns jewels the works, endgame iwaioidai, side/past kurodai, white collar au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: Sawamura Daichi has always been steady, sure about who he is and what he wants. But a year after an ill-fated run-in with Oikawa Tooru, head of the infamous white collar crime syndicate Seijou, Daichi finds himself undercover on a massive jewel heist, on the trail of a grander conspiracy, and questioning every conviction he's ever held.Sequel toMouthful of Diamonds





	1. muscle memory

**Author's Note:**

> this is a follow-up to mouthful of diamonds so if u haven't read that u probably should :~)  
> come yell w/ me on twit if you want [@ellipsometry_](http://www.twitter.com/ellipsometry_)

Jumping through a window is nothing like in the movies.

“Are you gonna take all day, or what?”

At the very least, the guys in the movies don’t have to deal with an over-tired Sugawara Koushi hissing at them with a mixture of amusement and derision.

“I’m a bit bigger than you, alright?” Daichi hisses back, using his police baton to chip away at the hole they’ve smashed in the glass of a storefront window.  They’re not really _jumping_ through the window so much as they’re carefully walking _through_ it.  But, well, close enough.  Suga had been pretty graceful about it, given the circumstances.  Daichi, on the other hand, is still warily eyeing the jagged edges of the hole they’d created in the window using a shockingly sturdy metal trash can from the street.

“Daichi, I swear to—”

Daichi finally makes his way through the window, glass crunching under his boots as he steps inside the building, holstering his baton and giving Suga an expectant look.  The suspect they’ve been chasing all day is apparently holed up in the storage basement, this store serving as a front for his black-market dealings.  But if he’s worth his salt – which Daichi fears he is – he would have been long gone the moment he heard them smash through the window.

“Maybe we should have picked the lock.”

Suga sighs, pulling his gun as they round the corner toward the basement door, “We _would_ have if you’d remembered your lock picking set.”

“You say that like you didn’t also forget yours,” Daichi mumbles.

“Alright,” Suga finally cracks a smile, “I guess you got me there.”

They bust open the door to the basement, revealing nothing more than an empty staircase.  The light switch doesn’t work, so Daichi pulls out a flashlight, sweeping it down the stairs and around the room as they make their way to the bottom.  The basement itself is nearly as empty and abandoned as the storefront had been.  The floor is dusty, unpaved and the air is still, like no one’s been there for days.

“Clear,” Suga announces after a check of the room, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness.  He’s always had abnormally great eyesight, a knack for seeing things others would ordinarily miss.  (That plus his ability to read lips makes him a menace for office gossip.)

What isn’t hard to miss are the crates of weapons and contraband stacked neatly throughout the room.  Not many firearms, it seems, save for a crate or two labeled as personal handguns.  Not even yakuza weapons dealers are foolish enough to trade in firearms; instead they traffic in other banned materials, from drugs to explosives to chemicals.

“He’s not here,” Daichi swipes a finger through a thick layer of dust on top of a crate labeled _THIS SIDE UP_ , “He never _was_ here.”

“These new guys are too slippery,” Suga frowns, “It’s like he knew—”

“—exactly where we’d look for him?” Daichi finishes, and Suga nods.

In a year since joining Tokyo Police Department’s White Collar Crime Unit, Daichi’s seen a lot of unbelievable things.  He’s cracked down on art thieves and smugglers.  He’s gone undercover and extracted confessions first-hand from criminals.  He had even uncovered an international prescription drug trafficking ring with the help of some intel from the head of Seijou, a local crime syndicate.

But Daichi’s never seen criminals evade capture like those from the Kusudama Clan, a splinter yakuza group with heavy ties to Tokyo’s black market and white collar crime network.  Suga and Daichi had been brought on to the case as consultants, a personal request of Kurokawa, the head of Organized Crime.

They’ve been working leads for over a month.  With nothing to show.

Except for confiscated goods, that is.  Daichi calls in the basement stash and he and Suga hang out until Kiyoko and her crew relieve them of duty, coming to cart off the contraband.

The walk to the bus station is tense, “Something’s just not right about this,” Suga says, not for the first time.

Daichi can’t disagree.  The Kusudama Clan are unusual in a number of ways: an offshoot of one of the larger yakuza families with no evident purpose or structure, on bad terms with nearly all other clans, and spitting in the face of most yakuza traditions.  They’ve been functioning more like a loose-knit crime syndicate than anything else, moving quicker and more nimbly than most criminals Daichi’s seen.  The latest intelligence suggests they’ve been cut off from the wealth and resources of the larger yakuza network – so why did it seem like they were still the most well-connected group of them all?

“You think your friends know anything about these guys?”

Daichi arches an eyebrow, “My friends?”

Suga grins, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “Your Seijou friends.  They knew about Tanabe Pharma, maybe they’ve got some info on these guys.”

“They’re criminals, of course they know something about other criminals,” Daichi responds stiffly. It’s been the better part of a year since the last time he saw Oikawa and Iwaizumi, Seijou’s dual heads, but the encounter is still fresh in his mind, sore and conspicuous like a lingering bruise.  Just a mention of them from Suga and Daichi seizes up with guilt, spine going rigid, head bowed as they walk.

And, as usual, Suga notices, “God, you really hate those guys, huh?  You always get twitchy when I mention them.”  Daichi just shrugs; _hate_ is not quite fair, and far too frail a word to describe the feeling Daichi gets when he thinks about Oikawa Tooru.

“You wanna grab a drink?” Suga gestures to a favorite bar of theirs, just a stone’s throw from the bus station, but Daichi shakes his head.

“Think I’m gonna turn in early tonight,” he waves his goodbyes, watching the bus pull up, probably the last of the night, “Maybe next time.”

“Early, huh?” Suga laughs, clearly referencing the fact that it’s already almost midnight, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Daichi should be tired.  He should be out like a light the second his head hits the pillow.  Instead, his brain is lit up like the neon lights of Shinjuku on a busy weekend.  It’s been like this for a while now, long enough for Daichi to know there’s nothing he can do to calm the noise or ease the doubts and guilt that creep in the corners of his mind.

So, stubborn as always, Daichi lays down, folds his arms across his chest, and watches the shadows that dance across his ceiling until sleep finally finds him.

 

 

+

  


After Daichi meets Oikawa Tooru, he does a lot of things for the first time.  

He starts sleeping with his handgun under his pillow – not proper firearm safety by any stretch of the imagination, and uncomfortable to boot.  But it’s not as though he gets much sleep these days, anyway.  Oikawa is always there when he closes his eyes, their one night together playing on the inside of Daichi’s eyelids like a bad film noir.  The innocuous meeting, the less-than-appropriate dalliance in the hotel elevator, and, finally, their deal: Oikawa clutching Daichi’s tie pin and the hidden camera and compromising footage therein, Iwaizumi tossing Daichi a flash drive full of intel about a shady deal set to go down between Tanabe Pharmaceuticals and their new Chinese business partners.

Back at the bureau, they call Daichi a hero.  They give him a sizeable bonus for securing such reliable intelligence, and for leading the bust.  Daichi, in turn, uses that money to buy a new, state-of-the-art security system for his apartment.  The locks on the doors and all the windows are shiny and conspicuous against the shabby interior of the apartment.  Daichi doesn’t mind.

It’s the lying he minds.  The bureau, well aware of Seijou’s intense desire to stay off the record and away from cameras, had equipped Daichi with _two_ hidden cameras for that exact reason: one in his tie pin, the other hidden in his cufflink.  One to be used as a bargaining chip, the other to be used to pin down Seijou’s notoriously slippery leader.

But once Daichi actually met Oikawa, that wasn’t exactly how it had gone down.

 _He cornered me,_ Daichi had told them, _Got both cameras._

A lie at worst, an omission at best.  Daichi’s never lied to a superior officer before, and the sensation of it itches like being covered in bug bites.

He sits with a sketch artist.  He gets a lot pricey bottles of wine from his co-workers to celebrate the drug bust.  He stops trying to sleep at night and watches old American movies instead, trying to practice his English.  When he can’t understand he just lets the words wash over him like waves; anything to keep his brain occupied, to drown his own thoughts.

Perhaps most importantly, Daichi watches.  He watches everything, everywhere, all the time, waiting to see the glint of Oikawa’s eyes or the all-knowing smugness of his smirk.  Daichi watches his phone, waiting for another mysterious message from an unknown number, one that reads with the trademark lilt of Oikawa’s voice.

And, in a moment of weakness (and many other subsequent weak moments), Daichi finally downloads the video from the hidden camera in his cufflink and watches his and Oikawa’s introductory meeting play out on the flat screen in his living room.  A movie all their own.

It’s hours of footage that Daichi pours over, looking for some kind of hint or tell in the way Oikawa moves, the way he speaks.  He’s just as captivating on screen as he had been in person, and Daichi has never been so furious.  Maybe if Oikawa wasn’t so _Oikawa_ , Daichi wouldn’t have gotten in this mess to begin with.

There’s a moment, when Oikawa has his gun pointed squarely at Daichi’s forehead.  There’s a moment when he pauses for so long that Daichi assumes the screen has frozen, but then Oikawa blinks rapidly, and his mouth drops open a bit, like he’s looking at a miracle.

 _I know you won’t shoot,_ Daichi had said, and he pauses on Oikawa’s face in that moment, head tilted to the side, bangs falling in his eyes.  It’s an unreadable look on his face, but if Daichi had to guess, he would call it reverence.

In a fit of self-control, Daichi saves the video to a flash drive and freezes the drive in a cup of water, burying it deep in his freezer.  And then, night after night after night, he finds himself chipping through the small block of ice to get at the flash drive, like a shopaholic frantically trying to get to a frozen credit card.

Maybe it’s the _waiting_ he minds, more than anything else.  Daichi knows Oikawa’s out there, and not just because of the police reports that roll in as usual, bearing the trademark signs of a Seijou heist.  It’s the emails, the LINE messages peppered with obnoxious stickers, the _birthday cards_ , envelopes filled with glitter that rains down over Daichi as he rips the cards open.  (Months after his birthday, Daichi is still finding specks of blue and green sparkles imbedded in his carpet.)

The Valentine’s Day card is even worse.   _Detective Sawamura -- It’s a CRIME that we didn’t get to consummate our love!_ it reads, complete with a lewd, poorly-drawn picture in the corner.  It’s thankfully free of glitter, but that’s a small consolation.  (Daichi is too embarrassed to bring the card into the office for handwriting analysis.)

And so, it’s the waiting that keeps Daichi up at night, turning every errant word of Oikawa’s over in his mind, searching for a message.  It’s been nearly a year since that night – is he missing something?

Daichi remembers when he used to be a heavy sleeper, back before he became a cop, before he needed to be ready to jump into action at any time, before he slept within arms-reach of a firearm.

Before he started getting unwanted visitors in the middle of the night.

It’s a week or so after his and Suga’s latest failed bust when it happens.  There’s three things that wake Daichi up all at once.  First is the chime of his phone, indicating a new message.  Second is the barely-there creak of the floorboards of his apartment, something he might otherwise ignore if he wasn’t already so on-edge.  Third is the absence of Daichi’s dog from the foot of his bed.

Daichi’s white labrador retriever, Yuki, is about as lazy as they come, usually found oblivious and comfortable, curled up on Daichi’s bed.  Concerned for her whereabouts more than anything else, Daichi climbs quietly out of bed, moving to grasp his firearm (now stored properly in the safe on his nightstand), stalking toward the door and down the hallway.  It’s a feeling, an intuition that draws Daichi toward the living room, crouched and tense, hairs prickling on the back of his neck.  There’s definitely _someone_ here, an unusual shadow barely outlined by the soft glow of moonlight coming in through the window.

Gun drawn, Daichi holds his breath and reaches out to flick on the light—

—only to find Iwaizumi Hajime, sitting innocuously on the couch, petting Daichi’s dog and looking like he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Oikawa’s real mad about this, by the way,” Iwaizumi says, by way of a greeting, holding up a copy of an old newspaper.  He regards Daichi’s gun with a cocked eyebrow, and nothing more.

“You have to be fucking— some guard dog _you_ are,” Daichi huffs, looking down disapprovingly at Yuki, who’s curled up at Iwaizumi’s feet, fat and happy as usual, “And you— I’m putting you back in prison.  Immediately.”

“Just for this or for all the other times I broke into your apartment?”

Daichi feels a migraine coming on, “Are— Have— How many times have you just sat in my living room in the dark waiting for me to come out?”

“Enough times,” Iwaizumi says, and he doesn’t even look embarrassed, “Just keeping an eye on you.”

“Oddly enough, most people aren’t pleased to have a wanted criminal ‘keeping an eye’ on them.”  Nevertheless, Daichi lowers his gun, resting it on the coffee table.  It’s not loaded – he had foregone ammunition, hoping the threat of a firearm would be enough to dissuade any home intruder.  But Iwaizumi probably wouldn’t be intimidated either way.

“I’m keeping an eye on you for your own safety,” Iwaizumi says, and if Daichi didn’t know any better he’d say Iwaizumi’s voice sounded a bit sad, “Can’t have anything happening to our inside man.”

Daichi doesn’t doubt that his life might be in danger, and he doesn’t press for details, “I’m not your inside man.”

“Oh yeah?” Iwaizumi snorts, folding back the newspaper he’s holding so Daichi can see what he’s looking at: the police artist sketch of Oikawa, drawn using Daichi’s instructions, “Were you trying to do him a favor or do you just have a shit memory?”  Iwaizumi hands the paper to Daichi, reading down to ruffle his hand through Yuki’s fur.

“Don’t— don’t pet my dog, like that’s a normal thing for you to be doing!”

“Why isn’t this normal?  I love dogs,” says Iwaizumi, and he actually sounds affronted.

“Shut up,” Daichi sighs, looking down at the police sketch.  It really is a bad likeness: the nose is too long, the hair is all wrong, the jawline is off.  It still looks vaguely like Oikawa, but if he was left out in the sun too long and melted a bit.

Daichi had been unhelpful with the sketch artist on purpose, withholding the distinctive details of Oikawa’s face.  Maybe because the night was still hazing in Daichi’s head, or maybe because he wanted to keep those details to himself – the slight upturn of Oikawa’s nose, the soft spray of freckles on his cheeks, so light they could only be seen when inches from his face.  The way his top lip curved to the left when he smiled, a barely-genuine smirk that made Oikawa look haughty and handsome and begging to be taken down a peg.

“I was honoring the spirit of our deal,” is what Daichi tells Iwaizumi, “What’s the use in trading my video of Oikawa if I’m just going to tell everyone exactly what he looks like?”

“ _The spirit of our deal_ ,” Iwaizumi repeats, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s mocking Daichi or admiring him, “That’s what I figured.  There was no way in hell you were going to forget what Tooru looks like.  He has that effect on people.”

“That’s not—” Daichi splutters, “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here or not?”

A shrug, “Just picking something up.”

Iwaizumi reaches in his pocket, holding something up – a small flash drive pinched between his middle and pointer fingers.  Daichi’s blood runs cold.

“How did you—”

“We always knew,” Iwaizumi says, and it’s a surprise to see him smile, “Let you keep it on purpose.”

“To see if I was trustworthy,” Daichi says, piecing the implication together in his mind, “You don’t really care if the police know what Oikawa looks like, or if they have his full name now.  You just needed someone you could trust.”

Another shrug.  Iwaizumi stands up, brushing some dog fur off his jeans, “It’s been a long time coming.  Although Tooru’s a bit mad that everyone thinks he looks like _this_ now,” he jerks his jaw toward the police sketch, “Doesn’t really do him justice, does it?”

Daichi frowns, setting his jaw, “Now you know that I mean what I say.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to call the bureau the second you leave and have them trail you.”

At that, Iwaizumi smiles again, and it’s so disarming that Daichi almost forgets what they were just talking about.  He’s finally seeing Iwaizumi up close, as opposed to on a blurry wanted poster or in a dim-lit parking garage.  The slopes and curves of his face are hard where Tooru’s were soft, defined and hardened, like coal pressed into diamonds.  There’s a scar across Iwaizumi’s right eyebrow where a patch of hair now refuses to grow, and another small nick on the edge of his top lip.  His nose is ever-so-slightly crooked, perhaps evidence of his rumored yakuza past, or some fights gone awry.  But his jaw looks square and sturdy, like it could definitely take a punch.

Most startlingly of all, Iwaizumi has one deep dimple in his left cheek, which shows as he laughs at Daichi, stalking forward in a way that’s menacing by default, “I don’t actually think you’ll do that,” he says, plainly, voice so low that Daichi has to lean forward to hear him.  Only then does he realize just how close they are; Daichi’s forearm brushes against Iwaizumi’s, and Daichi recoils like he’s been burnt.

“What’re you getting at?”

If Daichi didn’t know any better, he would say that Iwaizumi looks disappointed, “Don’t you have a message?” he asks, turning back toward the couch, where Yuki is still lazing about.

Iwaizumi is silent as Daichi checks his phone, watching the color drain from Daichi’s face.

“You get going,” he says, finally, chucking Daichi his apartment keys, “I’ll take Yuki for a walk.”

  


**To: Sawamura Daichi  
** **From: Unknown  
** **Received: 20XX 06 26, 03:40**

daichan~~~~ its been a while~~~~

 

**To: Sawamura Daichi  
** **From: Unknown  
** **Received: 20XX 06 26, 03:47**

youre probably talking to iwachan SIGH  
i feel so neglected

 

**To: Sawamura Daichi  
** **From: Unknown  
** **Received: 20XX 06 26, 03:49**

anyway daichan u and your buddies should check out tokyo one bank  
i hear somethings going down (°ロ°) !

  


One frantic phone call and forty minutes later, Daichi reaches Tokyo One Bank.  The stone marble building is already awash in the blue and red of so many police car sirens, and Daichi spots Tanaka in the fray, shouting orders at novice officers who scurry around, looking harried.

“Daichi!” It’s Ukai who flags Daichi down, still in his plain clothes, and looking a bit worse for the wear. (Although, truthfully, he usually looks worse for the wear.)

“Anything?” Daichi asks, and Ukai nods firmly.

“Attempted robbery,” he beckons over Ennoshita, the on-duty Sergeant, who hands Daichi a clipboard with the incident report, “Too early to say, but I’d bet my bank account they’re Kusudama thugs.”

“Your whole bank account, huh?” Ennoshita deadpans, “What’s that, a few hundred yen?”

Daichi bites back a laugh, “Why do you think it’s Kusudama?”

“Sophistication of the operation.  Robbers usually avoid operations at night because security systems are so tight, so why hit this place at four in the morning?” Ennoshita taps a finger toward a bit of circled kanji on the report, “But they knew how to disable a top-notch alarm system, got in no problem, and one guy even had full blueprints of the place.”

“They were locking up the place afterwards, to cover their tracks,” Ukai runs a hand through his hair, and dozens of cowlicks pop up in its wake, “If we had got here a second later, they would have been gone and it could have been a full day before anyone realized something was missing.”

Over Ennoshita’s shoulder, Daichi sees Tanaka wrestling one of the bank robbers into the back of a squad car, grinning like he’s just hit the lottery.  This is a big win for the bureau, so why does Daichi feel so guilty?

Ukai claps a hand on Daichi’s shoulder, “Whoever your source is, we owe them.”

Ah, that’s why.

It’s not hard to slink away from the crowd, toward where Daichi can see the white of Yuki’s fur peeking out from the shadows of a nearby alley.  Iwaizumi looks unsurprised and expectant as Daichi approaches, and he hands over Yuki’s leash.

“How many times have you taken her out for a walk without me knowing?” Daichi asks, tentative.

“Only once,” Iwaizumi halts, “Or twice.  She’s a good girl.”

Daichi can’t argue with that.  He reaches down to ruffle the fur between Yuki’s ear, and feels something tap against the top of his head.

“Forgot to give this back,” Iwaizumi says, tapping Daichi’s flash drive once more time against his forehead before handing that over as well, “Tooru would be crushed if you really did forget what he looked like.”

“That’s—” _not funny_ , is what Daichi wants to say, but the truth is it’s also just _not likely._

“How’d you get around my security system, anyway?” Daichi asks, letting Yuki lead the way toward the nearest bus station that will allow dogs on, “It was supposed to be top-of-the-line.”

Iwaizumi ducks out of the alley to follow Daichi and Yuki, pulling his hoodie up to shield his face.  The chances of him being recognized are probably slim, not with the dim light and hazy early-morning fog obscuring them, “We have our own top-of-the-line guys for stuff like that.  If it makes you feel any better, Yahaba had a pretty rough time cracking your system.”

“It doesn’t,” Daichi exhales, “Make me feel any better.”

In fact, it almost makes it worse, knowing for sure that Iwaizumi and Oikawa and the rest of the Seijou crew had a window into his life this past year.  It seems like a lifetime ago that he first relented, cracking open the cufflink to get at the video inside, spurring his fixation on Oikawa and his motivation.  How many times had Iwaizumi seen Daichi pouring over that footage, mapping out Oikawa’s movements after the Tanabe incident, cursing himself when the trail went cold?  Had Iwaizumi seen the files Daichi photocopied from the office, detailing the profiles of every Seijou member?  Iwaizumi’s folder was the thickest by far, every transgression and bit of dirty laundry the bureau could find on him packed in.

Daichi had been hoping to get the upper hand.  Now, he was playing catch up as usual.

“God, you’re a moody motherfucker,” Iwaizumi grunts, “Just like Oikawa.  I can hear you thinking from here.”

“I’m thoughtful, not _moody_.”

Iwaizumi laughs, “That sounds even more like something Oikawa would say.”

Daichi can feel another headache coming on; a lack of sleep and an abundance of confusion will do that to you, “I need you to be straight with me,” he says, finally, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring Yuki’s whine, “Why give us a heads up about the bank robbery?”

Iwaizumi halts, hands in his pockets, “Oikawa hates Kusudama more than anyone.  And I’m no friend of the yakuza anymore, as I’m sure you know.”

“Still doesn’t explain it.”

“Sure it does,” Iwaizumi shrugs, “So, why don’t you ask what you really want to know.”

Iwaizumi levels Daichi with a penetrating look, stepping forward in a way that might be threatening, or might just be comforting.  Something about Iwaizumi’s energy is familiar; he has an ease about him that Daichi recognizes.  Identifies with, even.

Maybe that’s why the words come so easily, “What took Oikawa so long?  Why leave me waiting?”

Iwaizumi lets out a long hum, accompanied by a sympathetic smile, “Since we’re being _straight_ with each other, and all, you should know that Tooru’s life is just one long con.  Or, at least, he likes to think so.  He’s got a reason for everything he does, and to have a white collar detective owe you one is a pretty big get.  He’s—”

“Just waiting for the right opportunity,” Daichi finishes, and he can’t hide the bitterness in his tone.  Yuki whines, impatient; Daichi can relate.

“Honestly, he probably got a bit impatient,” Iwaizumi continues, “If it were me I woulda saved that favor for a rainy day.  But I am glad we got to officially meet.”

Iwaizumi thrusts out his hand for a shake, and Daichi blinks down at it.  That’s right – they’ve never actually been formally introduced.  For all of the intimate details they likely know about each other, they never got to have this moment of mutual recognition, a normal, run-of-the-mill introduction.

“I’m glad too,” Daichi says, shaking Iwaizumi’s hand.  It’s as calloused and rough as he’d expected, “In spite of it all.”

“In spite of it all,” Iwaizumi agrees, breaking the handshake.

A noise in the distance redirects Daichi’s attention – a loud bellowing of the morning water bus gearing up for duty.  Daichi says a small prayer for the employees who are already waking up for work, and turns to Iwaizumi to make a quip about it—

But he’s already gone, melted away into the alley shadows of near-dawn.  


+

 

On Monday morning, wanted criminal Oikawa Tooru walks through the doors of the Tokyo Police Department.

Well, not quite.  He doesn’t walk so much as he _saunters_ ; so confident that he looks like he belongs, no doubt about it.  He stands out so much he becomes paradoxically inconspicuous, and not one person turns their head toward him, save for a few younger female officers.  And, of course, Daichi.  Daichi spots Oikawa the moment his obsessively-polished shoes hit the white tile of the lobby.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Daichi nearly swallows his tongue; next to him, Suga laughs through a mouthful of his morning pastry.

For one of Japan’s most wanted white collar criminals to walk straight into the office building housing both the White Collar Crime Unit and the Organized Crime Bureau would be complete and utter madness.  There’s no way that man loitering in the lobby could be Oikawa – which is why Daichi feels so confident that it must be.

“Let me guess,” Suga says, following Daichi’s eyes, “Another one of your ill-fated one-night stands has tracked you down to confront you in the office?”

 _Something like that_ , Daichi thinks, but he just gives Suga a withering look before bounding down the stairs to the lobby.  Without a word, and ignoring the genuine happiness that blooms on Oikawa’s face and the way it tugs at something in his chest, Daichi sweeps an arm over Oikawa’s shoulder and steers him toward one of the smaller conference rooms.  It’s thankfully unoccupied, and Daichi locks the door behind them with a soft _click_.  He flicks on the lights, thinks better of it, flicks them off again.

“How _intimate_ ,” Oikawa purrs, lacing his arms around Daichi’s shoulders from behind.  One hand rests loosely around Daichi’s throat, the other winding down under the collar of his shirt; a threat, and an invitation.

It’s been nearly a year since the last time Daichi heard Oikawa’s voice in person, as opposed to in a recording.  And it’s a miracle Daichi’s able to keep his composure, even as he feels the gravity of Oikawa’s presence – _here, real, tangible_ – outside of his imagination for the first time in so long.

“Shut up,” Daichi nearly growls, grabbing at Oikawa’s wrists and spinning around to face him, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“So rude, as always,” Oikawa whines, but his playful tone doesn’t quite meet his eyes.  Daichi’s own eyes are adjusting to the dim light, just a sliver of it coming in through the crack between the door and the wall, a small shard of light that falls across Oikawa’s face, splicing him in two.  His mouth is smiling but his eyes look _hungry_ , hungry like he hasn’t eaten in weeks and Daichi is an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Hungry in the same way Daichi feels right now, feasting on Oikawa’s features like he might never see them again.  And who knows – he might not.

“Give me one reason not to put you in handcuffs right now.”

“I’m afraid I cannot,” Oikawa quips, faux-serious, “In fact I would _love_ if you’d put me in handcuffs.  Can we get some of those nice, silk ones instead, though?  I’ve got sensitive skin you know—”

“ _Oikawa._ ”

“Alright, alright,” Oikawa wrests his hands from Daichi’s grasp, holding them up, displaying his innocence, “I’m just here to give you some friendly advice.  Another tip, if you will.”

Daichi paces to the other side of the room, sitting down and exhaling hard, “Like the other night.  And you couldn’t just text me because…?”

There’s a long pause, and Oikawa puffs his cheeks up like he’s holding his breath.  He very well might be, because when he speaks it comes out all in one breath, so fast Daichi almost misses it, “I just wanted to see you, okay, is that a crime?”

“It… it might be,” Daichi says slowly, losing a fight to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up, “You have my address, you know.  Iwaizumi didn’t seem to have a problem paying me a visit there.”

“Oh, Iwa-chan is so impolite.  You know what they say, you can take the boy out of the yakuza, but… so on and so forth,” Oikawa walks over to where Daichi is sitting, perching himself on the conference table in front of him, “I have a tip for you, and so I thought I’d take the opportunity to see you.  Nothing more, nothing less.”

Oikawa adds, after a beat, “And I am nothing if not an opportunist.”  That, at the very least, has the ring of truth to it.  It shouldn’t ease Daichi’s nerves, but it does.  

And so, in the dark of an empty conference room, feet away from dozens of officers and detectives that would love nothing more than to lock Oikawa Tooru away for a very, very long time, Daichi reaches out and grabs Oikawa’s hand, squeezing it gently.  Oikawa returns the favor, and Daichi traces a finger down toward the pulse point on Oikawa’s wrist, just letting it rest there, feeling his heartbeat.  Just knowing he’s alive, he’s real, he’s here.

“It’s good to see you,” Daichi says.  Simply, quietly, truthfully.

He finally makes eye contact with Oikawa, who has a familiar look on his face as he opens his mouth—

—and is promptly cut off by the sound of someone wiggling the doorknob to the conference room, trying to get inside.  Daichi curses, and Oikawa dives somewhere, unseen.  The person on the other end of the door must have a key, because there’s the tell-tale scrape of metal in the lock, and it’s all Daichi can do to sit, hunched over, head rested in the crook of his elbow, as if he had just been taking a nap.

The lights flick on.  “... Sawamura?”

“Huh?” Daichi whips his head up, trying to look as innocuous as possible.  

It’s Ukai at the door, hand still on the light switch.  “Sawamura,” he repeats, “Not like you to sneak away for a nap.”

“Maybe you’ve just never caught me before,” Daichi jokes, laughing awkwardly to cover up the hitch in his breath as a hand traipses up his inseam.  It’s Oikawa, crouched under the table, just barely out of Ukai’s line of sight, “I-It won’t happen again, sir, I apologize,” Daich bows his head, and catches Oikawa’s eye, his face just a few centimeters from Daichi’s crotch, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Ukai sighs.  He doesn’t really play favorites, but if he did, Daichi would be one.  It’s allowed them to have a fairly colloquial relationship, and it lets Daichi get away with gaffs like being caught alone in a dark conference room.

“Meeting in the main conference room in ten minutes,” Ukai says, giving Daichi a dismissive wave as he leaves, “Try to get some rest tonight, Sawamura.”

“Yes sir,” Daichi says, even-toned even as Oikawa’s hot fingers draw patterns on his thighs.  The second the door clicks shut behind Ukai, Daichi bolts upward out of his seat, nearly kneeing Oikawa in the face.

“Watch where you’re swinging those legs!” Oikawa hisses, crawling out from under the table with a pout, “You nearly whacked my nose!”

“And you would have deserved it,” Daichi frowns, all the sentiment and ill-fated fondness for Oikawa draining out of him, “Now, give me your tip or intel or whatever and get out of here.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, “It’s about a new case your office is getting today, and why you need to do whatever you can to get on it.”

Daichi frowns deeper, if that were at all possible, and crosses his arms across his chest, “That’s not hard, it’s a small division.  What’s so important about it?”

“It’s _technically_ an Organized Crime case,” Oikawa says, tipping his head back and forth as he speaks, like he’s considering something, “And it’s some pretty sensitive information, so it’ll be very, very small team.  It’s probably what Ukai was talking about just now.”

“Why do I need to work the case?  Am I supposed to do something?”

“You’ll know what to do when you see it.”

It’s altogether too early for Oikawa to be so cryptic, Daichi decides.  But it’s useless to try securing any more information from him.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Oikawa repeats, arching a brow, “Just so you know, this doesn’t count as your favor for me.  If anything, I’m doing _you_ a favor.”

Daichi decides it’s also too early to be arguing over semantics of his and Oikawa’s vaguely-illegal deal.  So, he just sighs, reaching out to rest his hand against Oikawa’s jaw, running a thumb across an angular cheekbone.

“It really is nice to see you,” Oikawa says, smiling, stealing the words right from Daichi’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Daichi returns the smile, and lets the moment sit for a second, “Now, get the hell out.”

Suga has a knowing look on his face when Daichi shows up a minute late to their meeting, one that Daichi conspicuously ignores.  Just as Oikawa hinted, it’s a very small group: just Ukai, Kurokawa, Sugawara, and another, younger cop Daichi recognizes as Kageyama Tobio.  He’s well-known as a genius when it comes to detective work, and every division has been clamoring to claim him as their own.  Now, it seems like he’s finally made his choice.

“A PSIA agent came by the office last night to drop this off,” Kurosawa says simply, starting the meeting with no fanfare as soon as Daichi walks through the door.  He’s tapping on his computer, hooking it up to the room’s projector, and when it connects, the logo for Japan’s Public Security Intelligence Agency flashes across the screen.

Kageyama perks up, “What do they have that would involve us?”

“The point of this meeting is to let you all know,” Kurosawa responds dryly, not looking up from his screen, “So let’s get started, shall we?”

 

+

 

Jewels. That’s what it’s about, that’s what it’s always about, isn’t it? It’s such a classic: priceless jewels stolen out from under the nose of an unsuspecting museum docent, or from a high-security vault cracked at just the right moment by a wily thief dressed in all black, fading into the night as police sirens approach, just a moment too late.

The intelligence dropped off by the PSIA agent is about a suspected jewel heist.  Nothing new, except for the grandness of the target itself.

“The National Museum of Japan is hosting this exhibit next month,” Kurokawa explains, displaying a picture of the proposed exhibit, and the massive, sparkling treasure, “The jewels are from Iran, part of a royal collection never before displayed outside of the country.”  It’s not a surprise that they’re being targeted.  Every two-bit thief and wannabe in the prefecture will want a crack at the jewels, but few will pose a credible threat.

 _This_ , Kurokawa explains, is a credible threat: a group of thieves hired by Kusudama to steal the jewels, with payment upon delivery.  He brings them up to speed on the intelligence from the special agent, a veritable treasure trove of top-secret information about secure navigation routes for the jewels, codes referring to their movement, contact information for high-ranking Foreign Ministry officials on both ends of the communications channel.

These jewels are more than priceless, and to ensure their safety is to ensure the safety of an important economic partnership between the two countries.  It’s no wonder intelligence agents were so interested in the matter.

“Our team has some credibility after busting that bank robbery,” Ukai says, chest puffing out a little with pride.  He nods to Daichi, and Daichi’s lips tighten to a thin line remembering that it was Oikawa who really busted the robbery.

“And Kusudama lost faith in the competence of his own members after that,” Kurokawa adds, “He’s curating a new team for this heist, with the added benefit of the distance it affords him.”

“Who has he hired?” Kageyama asks.

“Here’s the list,” Kurokawa presses a button and a screen displaying a short-list of names pops up.  It’s a very small group of Tokyo’s slickest criminals, some so underground that Daichi doesn’t even recognize their names.

One name in particular, however, Daichi is _intimately_ familiar with.  Oikawa’s words are ringing in his ears, his advice that Daichi would _know what to do when you see it._

“Sugawara, I want you to go undercov—” Kurokawa begins, at the same moment that Daichi says, “I should go undercover.”

Suga blinks once, twice, “What’s got _you_ so eager?”

“I just—” Daichi flushes with embarrassment, all eyes in the room on him, “I know a way in.  I know someone on the team we can flip as a criminal informant.”

He ignores the knowing smile creeping across Suga’s face and the intense, confused look of Kageyama, and presses on, “There’s no way he won’t help us if I ask, I promise you that.”  It pains Daichi to say it, but it _is_ the truth.  He would never be so arrogant if it weren’t.

Ukai looks impressed, Kurokawa looks skeptical, “Who is it?”

“Kuroo,” Daichi says, and just saying his name feels like breaking a promise, “Kuroo Tetsurou.”


	2. bad decisions

Speaker phone was a mistake.  This, Daichi decides as Kuroo answers his call with a smug _Hey kitten, long time no talk_ , the trademark lilt of his voice as grating as ever. 

“You’re on speaker, Kuroo,” Daichi grits out, face flushing, “I’m calling you from the police station.  I need a favor.” 

Kuroo’s tone tightens immediately, and Daichi manages to forge ahead despite Suga’s stifled laughter and the way he keeps mouthing _kitten?_ at Daichi.  It doesn’t take much at all to convince Kuroo to help them infiltrate the Kusudama jewel heist.  In fact, all Daichi has to is ask. 

They set up a meet for later that afternoon after lunch.  Kurokawa and the Organized Crime team set off to develop an airtight alias for Daichi.  Ukai gets back to his own cases.  Suga is (thankfully for Daichi) pulled away on some mortgage fraud scheme. 

Which leaves just Daichi and Kageyama.  Alone in the conference room. 

Kageyama is an antsy worker.  Daichi pulls in a rolling whiteboard and laptops for the both of them, so they can start sketching out their plan for the mission, but they’re not getting much done.  Kageyama keeps twitching, tapping his fingers, looking furtively over at Daichi with that same intense look he always wears. 

Finally, it’s too much for Daichi to bear.  “Can you just ask me what you want to know?” 

“... I’m sorry?” 

“You clearly have a question for me,” Daichi says, “So, just ask it.  I don’t bite.”  Still, Kageyama has a look on his face like he really _does_ think Daichi will bite. 

“Go on,” Daichi presses, expecting a question about how he knows Kuroo Tetsurou, one of Tokyo’s best fences, and the head of Nekoma, a group of smugglers. 

Instead, Kageyama asks, “How is Oikawa?” 

“How is…” Daichi blinks once, twice, “Oikawa?” 

“I know you met him, last year,” Kageyama’s eyes seem to spring to life, and he sits up straighter in his chair, leaning across the conference table, “I met him too.  Well, not so much _met_ as-- it was years ago, I was just starting out,” Kageyama swallows, “It was a mistake, I almost got myself killed.” 

Kageyama seems to have trouble getting the words out, and Daichi has the sudden realization that this is probably the first time he’s told anyone in the bureau about it. 

“What happened, Kageyama?” 

It’s the typical story of a young recruit in over his head: Kageyama, after a high-profile bank robbery suspected to be orchestrated by Seijou, got it in his head that he could track them down and take down their leader single-handedly.  He managed to discover their hideout at the time, but found himself trapped, held hostage by men who wore masks and never spoke.  Except, that is, for Oikawa. 

“That’s the worst thing an officer can do,” Kageyama says, serious, “I made myself a liability.  They could have asked for a ransom, or used me as a bargaining chip, but—” 

“But they let you go,” Daichi finishes, “Oikawa let you go.” 

“He did,” Kageyama swallows again, eyes trained on wood grain of the conference table, “I wasn’t… It wasn’t worth it for them to keep me.” 

Kageyama’s voice is bitter, but tinged with something else Daichi is hesitant to name.  Admiration?  Thankfulness?  Resolve?  It’s clear Kageyama has turned that night over in his mind repeatedly, for good reason.  Knowing what he knows now about Oikawa, Daichi’s certain that Oikawa just didn’t want to add kidnapping and extortion to his rap sheet.

That and the added bonus of humiliating a young and impressionable officer.  Daichi had no doubt that Kageyama was pugnacious and difficult to manage as a new recruit; this experience must have humbled him greatly.  And, perhaps, motivated him. 

“You asked about Oikawa,” Daichi says finally, casually, “All I can say is that he’s the same as ever.  Least he was the last time I saw him.” 

Kageyama grins, an unsettling kind of smile that suggests he’s out of practice with such an expression, “Good.  I want him to be on top of his game when I catch him.” 

The implication settles heavy over the room, Kageyama’s drive purer than that of any officer Daichi has ever met.  And it reminds Daichi of two things: first, that he’s not the only person whose life Oikawa has touched.  And second, that Oikawa is first and foremost a criminal.  Funny, how that had slipped Daichi’s mind. 

And how unsettling, the feeling Daichi gets when he thinks of anyone other than him hunting down Oikawa, finally toppling him and the rest of Seijou.  The possessiveness is acrid in his throat, unwelcome and altogether unexpected. 

So, Daichi swallows, sets back his shoulders, and continues on with his work. 

“Good luck,” he says, finally, “But I think I’ll be the one to take Oikawa Tooru down.”

 

+

 

Daichi regrets his big talk the second he sets foot in his apartment. 

This time, there’s two of them.  Iwaizumi and Oikawa are both perched innocently on Daichi’s couch, Yuki nestled between them.  They look like they’re straight out of a damn magazine photoshoot. 

“Oh!  Fancy meeting you here, Dai-chan!” Oikawa perks up as Daichi walks through the door. 

“I live here.  You, not so much.” 

Iwaizumi gives Daichi an apologetic look, “Idiot here wanted to check in on the case.” 

“I thought we’d be waiting for a while!” Oikawa cocks his head to the side, “What are you doing home so early anyway?” 

The meet location is in at a bar in Shimokitazawa, far from the bureau, so Daichi makes a stop at his flat on the way there to change clothes and give the surveillance van time to scout out the location.  He had insisted that backup wasn’t necessary, Kuroo could be trusted, but it was standard procedure.  But, knowing Kuroo, the bar would be set back in a back alley or one of narrow, backstreets of the neighborhood.  Kuroo, and the rest of Nekoma, were adept at finding the best hiding spots in the city. 

Daichi tells Oikawa and Iwaizumi as much, and is greeted with two blank, unblinking stares. 

“What?” Daichi heads toward his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt, “Got another infuriatingly vague suggestion for me?” 

Oikawa scrambles up off the couch, following Daichi down the hallway, “You weren’t supposed to meet with _Kuroo fucking Tetsurou,_ you were supposed to bring _me_ in as an informant!  Why else would I come to you?!” 

“Are you— You said I’d know it when I saw it!  Your name wasn’t anywhere near that list!” 

“Well, your intelligence is shit.” Oikawa sniffs. 

Iwaizumi pipes up, “Weren’t you the one who leaked that intelligence to the PSIA in the first place?” 

“Iwa-chan!  Defend me for once!” 

“Look,” Daichi pauses in the doorframe of his room, turning toward Oikawa, “I’m on the case.  That’s what you wanted, right?  It’s obvious you don’t have a sweet spot for Kusudama, so just let me do my job and you won’t have to worry about him anymore.” 

Oikawa opens his mouth – maybe to protest, probably just to whine – but is interrupted by an abrupt _thud!_ from the living room, and Yuki’s startled barking.  Daichi exchanges a look with Oikawa, before bolting down the hallway once again. 

Daichi should probably get used to scenes like this unfolding in his apartment.  Yuki is still howling, ignoring Iwaizumi’s best _shush_ ings, and there’s a new addition to their motley crew sprawled underneath Daichi’s open window.  It’s a man a bit younger than Oikawa, lanky and round-faced, with a head of nearly-silver hair cropped into a neat bob.  He’s looking up at Daichi with round, brown eyes and an expression somewhere between pompous and mortified. 

“You sure know how to make an entrance, Shigeru,” Oikawa deadpans, and the boy – Shigeru’s – face reddens at least three more shades. 

He scrambles up, avoiding Daichi’s eyes, hand outstretched toward Iwaizumi, “I got that key you wanted.  But don’t use it, I haven’t knocked out the cameras across the street yet.” 

Daichi almost has to laugh.  Seijou sure is brazen, going so far as to discuss criminal activity right in front him, smack dab in the middle of a detective’s apartment. 

“Sorry, but no,” Daichi says, stepping in between Iwaizumi and Shigeru, snatching the key from his hand, “Try knocking.” 

Shigeru huffs, meeting Daichi’s eyes with a haughty look, “I didn’t spend years scrubbing any public mention of these jackasses just to have them caught knocking on a detective’s door by some street cam.” 

The name finally connects in Daichi’s head – this is Yahaba Shigeru, Seijou’s resident tech expert, a former hactivist with a pretty long list of alleged crimes against the state attached to his name.  And, apparently, the reason why Seijou has remained so securely underground and out of public sight for so long. 

“It’ll raise eyebrows if the police notices those cams are out.  And people are going to start noticing if I have a steady stream of suspicious guys climbing through my windows,” Daichi says, and Yahaba flushes again, “So, let’s just dispense with the house calls altogether, alright?” 

“But… where else will we meet?” 

Daichi balks, “Don’t you guys _live_ somewhere?  Shouldn’t you have a, I don’t know, hideout or headquarters or something?” 

“We can’t let a _cop_ into our headquarters!” Yahaba hisses. 

“Idiot,” Iwaizumi stands up, smacking Yahaba in the back of the head, at the same time that Daichi says, “So you _do_ have a headquarters.” 

“I’m just gonna…” Yahaba looks longingly toward the open window behind him, then turns back toward Daichi, eyes pausing a bit too long on the part of Daichi’s chest that is exposed, his work shirt still partially unbuttoned. 

“You look better in person,” Yahaba says, finally, nodding firmly and then escaping through the window just as clumsily as he had entered.  Weren’t thieves supposed to be stealthy? 

Oikawa sighs, hooking an arm around Daichi’s shoulders, “Don’t mind Shigeru, he just gets squirrely around new people.  Doesn’t get out much, you know those hacker types.” 

“Sure,” Daichi says, dry, shrugging Oikawa’s arm off, “Look, I still don’t know exactly what you guys want from me, but I can’t be coming home every day to wanted criminals in my living room.” 

Yuki whines, punctuating Daichi’s statement, and Iwaizumi leans down to placate her with some pets, “I’m sorry Sawamura, it’s just— it’s kind of difficult for me to go anywhere these days, for kind of obvious reasons.” 

_Obvious reasons_ being the fact that, until two years ago, Iwaizumi had been holed up in one of Tokyo’s highest-security prisons.  Oikawa had orchestrated Iwaizumi’s escape – _allegedly_ – but that didn’t mean Iwazumi was free to walk the streets as he pleased. 

“You obviously live _somewhere_ ,” Daichi worries the spare key he had snatched from Yahaba between his fingers, “It’s only fair that I know where.” 

“Fair?  How in the hell is that fair?” Iwaizumi’s temper flares, and Yuki whines again, scampering off down the hallway, “Me, I can come in here and – what?  Steal a few things if I wanted?  You, if you know where to find me, I could wake up in handcuffs, surrounded by all your best agents.” 

It’s the first time Daichi has seen Iwaizumi actually look _angry_ , as opposed to his default impassive expression.  But it’s not anger so much as it’s _fear_ , palpable and electric in the air.  Even a warning _Hajime_ from Oikawa doesn’t placate him.  Well, that’s fine, as far as Daichi is concerned.  If Iwaizumi is under the impression he was going to lie down and roll over, he was sorely mistaken. 

“You’re right, I don’t give a shit what’s fair,” Daichi spits, relishing the startled looks on Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s faces, “But I deserve to know what the hell’s going on here.”

 

“Sawamura—” 

“I’ve had a million chances to turn you over to the authorities, and I haven’t,” Daichi drags a hand down his face, “I think I’ve earned some trust, here.” 

The word _trust_ seems to evaporate all of Iwaizumi’s anger, his face folding back into a familiar shape, fists unclenching.  The brief heat of their exchange cools quickly, and Oikawa steps in between the two of them, hands outstretched. 

“You’re right,” he says, and Daichi wishes he could have _that_ on a recording, “We haven’t been really upfront, which is— well, we’re criminals okay?  Being shady is literally our job.” 

Daichi manages to crack a weak smile, “You should look for a new job.” 

“Well, why don’t we start over,” Oikawa stands up straight, nudging Iwaizumi with his elbow, “The whole point of us keeping tabs on you this year was to see if you’re trustworthy.” 

“And because Tooru has a massive boner for y—” 

“ _And_ you’ve passed that test with flying colors,” Oikawa elbows Iwaizumi again, “So, let’s be partners.  For real.” 

“... Partners?” 

A shrug, “So to speak.  I’ll text you a time and a place, and we can discuss it.”   _It_ probably meaning the favor that Daichi still owes Oikawa, the last remnant of their deal, the last loose end to be tied up. 

Daichi just nods; Iwaizumi goes quiet, but in a tense, conspicuous way, different from his usual brand of silence.  Halfway to the door, he turns on his heel, facing Daichi with a look of rare uncertainty. 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, meeting Daichi’s eyes, “Trust isn’t easy for me, not lately.  I’m sure you can guess why.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns on his heel again and heads out the front door, hood pulled up to cover his face.  Oikawa whistles lowly and follows after him, apparently deciding to keep his comments to himself for the time being. 

Except— “Wait, Dai-chan, I forgot to ask how you know Kuroo!  You weren’t one of his forlorn romances, were you?” 

Daichi makes sure the door hits Oikawa on his way out.

  


+

 

The rain starts while Daichi is on the bus, and by the time he steps off in Shimokitazawa the neighborhood is gray with it, pavement soaked and streets empty.  Daichi pulls up the hood of his rain jacket and makes a beeline for the surveillance van, letting them wire him up before he heads into the meet. 

Kuroo has always been a fan of the unknown, the human embodiment of the phrase _“I liked them before they were popular._ ”  As such, the bar he’s selected for their meeting is completely off the map, a dive hidden between an aging laundromat and a love hotel disguised as a manga cafe.  Daichi almost misses it entirely, at least until he spots Kuroo’s motorbike parked outside, [the red and black neko helmet hanging off the handlebars](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=ALrG8EMC&id=CC7CBD8F32516CF110E1FD511FAD4CAFA1792EC3&thid=OIP.ALrG8EMCM4T4kgq7TVtMmQEsEs&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fnitrinos.ru%2fwp-content%2fuploads%2f2014%2f08%2fneko_v3_1.jpg&exph=600&expw=600&q=black+and+red+neko+helmet&simid=607998793576156386&selectedIndex=0&ajaxhist=0). Above him, peeling paint nearly obscures the name of the bar: _Fukurodani_. 

“Thought you were gonna stand outside all day!” The bartender, a young guy with some truly strange hair, greets Daichi as soon as he walks through the door, grinning from ear to ear, “Tetsu’s in the back.” 

“Ah, thanks,” Daichi gives the bartender a curt bow, deciding not to ask how he knew who he was.  Then again, this place doesn’t look like it gets too much traffic outside of some loyal regulars; Kuroo probably ust told him to look out for a newcomer. 

Daichi spots Kuroo’s hair first, an unruly black bedhead peeking out from over the top of the booth.  His back is turned to Daichi, and he’s reading something, head bobbing and nodding in the way it does when he agrees with something or finds something particularly compelling.  Even after so many years, Daichi remembers each one of Kuroo’s (many, many) idiosyncrasies as if they were his own. 

So, when he slides into the booth across the table from Kuroo, Daichi recognizes the trademark twitch of Kuroo’s right eyebrow, way it quirks up like it always does when Kuroo is holding back a smile, trying to look cool.  The familiarity of it all soothes Daichi even more than he thought it would; he breaths in and, _yep_ , there’s Kuroo’s trademark cologne as well. 

“Whatcha reading?” 

“Dostoyevsky,” Kuroo turns the book so Daichi can see the cover, in the original Russian, “Lev’s teaching me.” 

Daichi snorts, “I’m surprised Lev hasn’t gotten himself killed yet.” 

Kuroo laughs under his breath, carefully placing his bookmark and closing his book, “What about me?  Surprised to see me in one piece?” 

A pause, “No.  Cats always land on their feet.” 

It’s painfully sentimental, and more than a bit cheesy.  But Kuroo laughs anyway, that same ugly cackle that Daichi remembers falling half in love with the second he heard it across from across a crowded classroom.   _First time in the big city?_ Kuroo had asked him, _Need a tour around campus?_  

“So, Kusudama,” Daichi says, before Kuroo can counter with some more sentimental remembrances from their college days, “What do you know?” 

“Officially?” Kuroo arches a brow, catching Daichi’s hand movements indicating that he’s wired, “Not much.  You know I’m not usually on the front-end of this stuff, but Kusudama isn’t the kind of guy who takes no for an answer.” 

Daichi furrows his brow.  Kuroo is a smuggler and occasional fence, hardly an ideal choice for an on-the-ground team of thieves, “What’s the team look like?” 

“Big.  He needs four pairs of hands for the operation itself, plus at least one guy on tech,” Kuroo ticks the numbers off on his hand, “Plus two guys for muscle, and two for the distraction.” 

“And for reconnaissance before the heist?” 

“Just the main four guys, I’d guess,” Kuroo shrugs, running a hand through his bangs in a vain attempt to smooth them, “We’re kind of in the dark.  All I know is that since someone leaked that info you guys got, the whole team’s changed around.  It’s locked down.” 

When Daichi frowns, Kuroo adds, “Except for me, of course.  Nine lives, and all.” 

“And doesn’t hurt that you’re the only one with the connections to move the merchandise,” Daichi adds. Buttering Kuroo up a bit won’t hurt – asking him to tank such a huge job in order to help the police take down one of his most lucrative clients isn’t an easy ask. 

Except that, somehow, it is, “Anything for you,” Kuroo says when Daichi makes the formal ask, leering in a way that is so familiar to Daichi that it’s almost nauseating. 

“... That’s it?  It’s that easy?” 

Kuroo shrugs, “Sure it is.  It’s always this easy.”   _It’s always this easy between us_ – that’s what he really means, the words that go unsaid. 

“Well, thanks,” Daichi can’t help the wave of awkwardness that washes over him.  Paradoxically, the ease Daichi feels around Kuroo, the familiarity and fondness, it makes him restless.  He stands up abruptly, making an excuse to run to the restroom, fumbling with the door knob, pushing his way inside. 

It’s empty, blessedly.  Daichi speaks aloud to the microphone hidden in his shirt collar, letting the team know he’s disabling the wire for the moment in order to take a bathroom break.  The connection isn’t two-way, but Daichi’s pretty sure he can hear Sugawara laughing at him from here. 

And then, very carefully, Daichi unclips his wire, pinches the delicate microphone between his thumb and pointer finger, and drops it in the toilet.  Kuroo arrives a second later, knocking on the door in a musical pattern before stepping inside with a dubious look. 

“You’re gonna make me fish that out for you, aren’t you?” he sighs, nodding toward the submerged microphone. 

“Maybe,” Daichi smiles, “You remembered our signal.” 

A snort, “Yeah, although usually when you’d do that it’s because you wanted a quickie in the bathroom.  I’m guessing I’m not gonna be so lucky this time?” 

It’s embarrassing, but true.  Kuroo and Daichi’s short-lived relationship had been white hot and nearly unbearable for everyone but the two of them.  They had signals for all kinds of message – two taps on the table meant _Meet me in the bathroom_ , pulling on your right earlobe meant _Can we leave?,_ a smile just meant _I love you, I love you, I love you._  Whole weekends melted by without a word, just two idiots face-to-face on a cramped twin mattress, smiling at each other. 

_It was nice, wasn’t it?  Back then?_ That’s what Daichi wants to ask, the question that almost spills from his mouth.  But they don’t have time for that right now; they’ve only got about five minutes before Daichi’s backup storms the place, standard protocol for when a comm-link goes dead. 

“I might have a bit of a problem.  What can you tell me about Oikawa Tooru?” 

It’s been awhile since Daichi’s seen such a look of pure glee spread across Kuroo’s face, and he laughs under his breath at the sight, “What do you need to know?” 

“Everything.”

 

+

 

“You’re terrible at chess, you know that?”

There’s joy in Oikawa’s voice as he says it, but Daichi is currently concentrating too hard on the pieces in front of him to do anything other than snort out a _I was more of a checkers guy_ and move his rook to E-5. 

“You haven’t said anything about my fresh look,” Oikawa adds, moving his bishop and gobbling up Daichi’s rook with just a flick of his wrist, “I made Yacchan order this wig special, you know.” 

Oikawa is currently wearing a hideous blond wig, part of his disguise complemented by a pair of mirrored aviators and lifts in his shoes that make him even taller and ganglier than usual. Whoever _Yacchan_ is, it’s clear they’re pulling Oikawa’s leg a bit. 

“It looks horrible, now let me concentrate.” 

“Rude!” Oikawa presses a hand to his breast, and he might be talking about the insult or the fact that Daichi’s just snatched his knight, or both, “This disguise is for your benefit, you know. Can’t have the unassuming populace see you consorting with a known criminal.” 

_That’s your fault for picking a public place to meet_ , Daichi thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. 

It’s a week after the meeting with Kuroo that Daichi gets a message from Oikawa asking to meet at a park a few blocks down from the bureau.  There’s a small playground, a few old ladies sitting around a stone picnic table gossiping, and, most importantly, a spread of free-to-use chess and shogi tables. 

“You’ll never get Kusudama to hire you if you play like this,” Oikawa sings, knocking another of Daichi’s pawns over, where it clatters to the ground, “Unless your friend Kuroo has another plan.” 

Daichi doesn’t bother asking how Oikawa knows about the way Kusudama interviews all his potential heist members: a chess match.  Beat him, and you’re in.  Kusudama is no master at chess, luckily.  Unluckily, Daichi is particularly terrible at it. 

“I don’t get it,” Oikawa muses, toppling Daichi’s king with his own bishop, “You’re a smart guy.  You _should_ be good at chess, right?” 

“Never played,” Daichi grumbles. 

“Good, so you’ll just lose, and the entire operation will be shot,” Oikawa observes, casual as ever. 

“Thank you for the reminder.” 

Oikawa busies himself with returning all the pieces to their rightful places, “Don’t mention it, just my bit of charity for the day.” 

Daichi is set to meet with Kusudama in less than two days, an interview set up by Kuroo under the guise of helping Kusudama fill the last spot on the team for the jewel heist.  Daichi’s alias is Hara Daisuke: a salaryman turned thief, and a trusted associate of Kuroo and Nekoma, his crew of smugglers.  Aside from the unorthodox interview requirements, Kuroo had assured everyone at white collar that Daichi was a shoo-in. 

“Why can’t you teach me how to win?” Daichi had asked Kuroo, “You beat him in a chess match, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, but I cheated.” 

The idea of cheating is tempting, not to mention practical, but Kusudama is reportedly too on edge after the bank heist gone wrong.  So, for the time being, Daichi was going to be playing a lot of chess. 

Once he’s finished putting away the chess pieces, Oikawa stands up wordlessly and starts walking east toward the bay.  And, as always, Daichi follows, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Weren’t we supposed to meet at your place?” Daichi asks, “In the interest of trust, and whatnot.” 

“That’s where we’re going, silly!” Oikawa sticks his tongue out at Daichi, pulling off his ratty wig and tossing it into a nearby trash bin, ruffling his own hair back into an acceptable shape, “Better?” 

“Better,” Daichi says, and Oikawa nods and turns away, leaving Daichi to watch his profile as they walk. 

Wherever Oikawa lives, it’s ritzy as all hell.  The pair walk for at least ten minutes, getting close enough to the bay that the salty air clears Daichi’s sinuses, the smell of freshly-caught fish making his mouth water.  It’s his day off, and the comfortable warmth reminds Daichi that he’s spent the entire day with Oikawa instead of enjoying the nice weather.  The sun is starting to set just enough that there’s a soft orange tinge settling over the sky, washing the landscape in amber.   

Oikawa probably looks pretty in this light – it’s a thought Daichi has before he can think better of it, and when he turns to look at Oikawa, his suspicion is proven correct.  Oikawa must be used to being watched, but his nose wrinkles in displeasure anyway, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” 

“Already have one,” Daichi quips back, startling a laugh out of Oikawa.

The homes around them start to get bigger, two- and three-story buildings that are bleached white and seem out of character somehow, clipped from a magazine and plopped in the middle of an otherwise urbanized prefecture.  Oikawa turns them down a side street, toward homes that are even larger and more unsettling, somehow.

“Well, here we are.  My neighborhood.”

“Nice place,” Daichi observes a well-kept house to his right, “I picked the wrong career, I guess.”

“Oh, that’s not ours,” Oikawa says, “But, we won’t be going inside my place anyway.”

Daichi blinks, “You brought me all the way— You had me come here for another one of your goddamn _loyalty_ tests?”

The way Oikawa winces slightly tells Daichi that he’s right.  Oikawa’s tipped his hand just slightly, letting Daichi see the neighborhood where Seijou is headquartered, “And you could come back and see the place,” Oikawa shrugs, “Provided I don’t wake up tomorrow to a houseful of white collar agents.”

“You really can’t let anyone in, can you?” Daichi sighs, squatting down to sit on the overly well-manicured street curb, “Don’t you get tired of it?”

“I do,” Oikawa answers, instant, “But I’m not the one with the real problem.”

“What do you mean?”

Oikawa plops down on the curb opposite of Daichi with a loud sigh and a bit of uncharacteristic gracelessness.  The street is one-way, narrow enough that with Daichi and Oikawa’s legs both outstretched their toes touch, “Iwa-chan, he’s— You know Hajime’s history, right?”

Before Daichi can answer with the only thing he knows for sure about Iwaizumi’s history – _Yakuza_ – Oikawa continues, voice low and even, “Hajime’s been running from the yakuza his entire life.  Even when he was leading his clan, he was trying to run away.  He’s the most loyal person I know, so the fact he was willing to betray his own allies to run away with me and start Seijou… it tells me all I need to know about what kind of people they were.”

“ _Were_ ,” Daichi repeats, “Iwaizumi was the criminal informant on the case that brought them down.  I read about it in his file.”

A nod, “They take revenge, Iwa-chan goes to jail after they set him up, and everyone lives happily ever after, another worthless criminal off the streets.”

There’s a bitterness in Oikawa’s tone so palpable Daichi can taste it, “You make it sound like he was innocent.”

“Oh, no.  He was totally guilty,” Oikawa laughs, tipping his head back toward the darkening sky, “And sloppy, too, for going out on a heist even though he knew there was a big price on his head.  But that shouldn’t have mattered.”

Oikawa lets the thought sit before explaining, “Hajime worked like a dog for them on that case.  He even stopped running cons with us for a while, as to not embarrass his supervising officer.  What they eventually caught him for was petty theft, and it could have all been forgotten as thanks for his due diligence in bringing down a massive yakuza enterprise but—”

“But they arrested him instead,” Daichi finishes, watching Oikawa’s lower lip tremble precariously, “And got all the credit.”

“Hajime didn’t care about credit!” Oikawa’s voice finally breaks, and he brings his knees up to his chest, pulling away from Daichi, “He cared about his freedom.  He cared about _trust_.”

“I understand,” Daichi says, so low the words almost get lost in the space between him and Oikawa, “I get it.  I believe in trust just as much.”

“You don’t,” Oikawa mumbles, “You care about the _law_.”  He says it like it’s a curse.

“I’m supposed to care about the law,” Daichi hisses, “I’m a cop!”  He’s defensive – why is that?  The anger is instinctive, wells up in his chest, rising until his throat is tight with it.  The worst part is that Daichi’s not sure _who_ he’s angry at – Oikawa? Iwaizumi?  The yakuza who set him up?  The cop that turned him in?

But the question that finally breaks Daichi is the one Oikawa poses: “What’s more important, the law or someone’s life?  Someone’s _freedom_?”

“I don’t know,” Daichi bites out, standing up so he can pace up and down the street, ignoring Oikawa’s baleful gaze, “I know it’s just— It’s not that black and white.  You should know that.”

“I do,” Oikawa stands up, brushes the dirt of his pants, “Just making sure you do.”

“I don’t need a moral lesson from a criminal,” Daichi warns, but his anger and defensiveness is already waning, fading as the sun finally disappears, chilling the air between them, “You can tell Iwaizumi that he can trust me.  And that I don’t break my promises.”

“I guess not,” Oikawa chirps, winding an arm through the crook of Daichi’s elbow, leading them back down the side street to the main road, “Otherwise why the hell would you be out here in the middle of nowhere with me?”

“Exactly,” Daichi says.  And for a second, he almost believes it, the idea that he wouldn’t be drawn to Oikawa if not for the debt he owes him, the idea that he wouldn’t be doing everything in his power to find Oikawa, to catch him or kiss him or maybe even run away with him.

He almost believes it.  But not quite.

 

+

 

For the next forty-eight hours, Daichi plays a lot of chess.  He spends a lot of time with Kuroo, prodding ever-so-slightly at the embers of a love that’s long past run its course.  He wakes up in the middle of the night and watches the cufflink footage of Oikawa again, mouthing their words like it’s a movie he’s long memorized.

And, on a raining Saturday morning, Daichi piles into a surveillance van with Suga, Kageyama, and the rest of the white collar team and drives off to the Kusudama meet.  The van has no windows, which is just as well, since Daichi might as well add car sickness to the list of things currently roiling his stomach.

“How’s your chess?” Suga asks, faux-innocent.

“You should know, I lost to you two times just this morning.”

“It’s not your fault I’m a strategic genius,” Suga says, grinning, “Here’s your watch, by the way.”

Ordinarily, Daichi would wear a wire while undercover.  But this is a different kind of mission and Kusudama is a different breed of criminal.  So, instead Daichi is wearing a watch fitted with a listening device, one he can turn off and on again when Kusudama’s thugs search him.

“Kuroo-san will be waiting for you inside,” Kageyama says, going over the game plan for what must be the fifth time today.  It must be a routine of his, “Turn off the watch, they’ll search you, turn the watch back on.  Kuroo will take you to a room for the chess match with Kusudama.  And please try to win, Sawamura-san.”  Daichi grits his teeth; Kageyama’s earnest seriousness wounds him.

But everything is in place.  Every potential bump in the road has been considered, even Daichi’s (inevitable) chess failure.  There’s a plan, a backup plan, a backup plan for the backup plan, and—

“Hold on.”

When the van finally parks, Daichi is the only one to step out, and when he does he finds himself in familiar territory.  Bleached white houses, narrow streets, the taste of salt on his tongue.

And, straight ahead, a motley trio to greet him: Kuroo, Kusudama, and, between them, Oikawa, standing with arms wide open.

“It’s been awhile, Dai-chan,” Oikawa purrs, “So glad you could join us.”

“Hara Daisuke,” Kusdama says a voice so low it sends an involuntary shiver down Daichi’s spine, “I hope you are as impressive as Tooru and Tetsurou have promised me.”

Daichi sure hopes so too.


	3. meet me

Once you meet one con man, you might as well have met them all.

That was always Daichi’s motto, and for years it had held fast.  White collar criminals tended to have a particular _look_ about them.  Distinct from yakuza or your average, run-of-the-mill criminal, con men have a different air about them, something hard to define but easy to spot once you know what you’re looking for.  The equation is always a bit different, but it usually includes a bit of eccentricity and a preternatural confidence.  Oikawa is the best example, Daichi thinks; look at him, and you’d think he could walk on water – if he really put his mind to it.

Seeing Kusudama in person for the first time, Daichi thinks he has that same air about him, that same razor-sharp smile and slightly unhinged gaze.  He fits in well between Oikawa and Kuroo, and he strike an imposing figure even though he’s about a head shorter than both of them.  Kusudama is wearing just a button-down and a vest, with Kuroo and Oikawa similarly outfitted.  Daichi suddenly feels a bit overdressed in his full suit, but at least it’s in-character for his alias.

“I hope you don’t mind Oikawa joining us,” Kusudama says, and his voice is a bit gravely, a smoker’s voice, “He’s joining our team and mentioned you two were acquainted.”  Kusudama may be yakuza, technically, but seeing him in person finally convinces Daichi that Kusudama really is a white collar man at heart.  The realization isn’t exactly comforting.

Daichi catches Kuroo’s eye, and Kuroo’s lips tighten in a way Daichi knows to mean _I swear I had no idea this was happening_ and maybe just a little _please don’t be mad at me._

“You could say that,” Daichi says, avoiding eye contact with Oikawa.  He needs an excuse to speak with Oikawa alone, and _soon,_ unless he wants Suga dispatching backup, storming the place and throwing the mission.

“It’s nice weather we’re having,” Daichi adds, _weather_ being one of the code words meaning _everything is good_ , signaling to Suga and the rest of his backup that everything is under control for now.  That will give them some ease, at least for the time being until Daichi can figure out what the _fuck_ is going on.

Kusudama ushers them inside one of the well-groomed, flat-roofed homes, a home so innocuous Daichi might have missed it if he were just taking a stroll through the neighborhood.  But the house itself looks empty, as if it were undergoing construction.  It’s eerie, quiet and forlorn.

There’s a bodyguard inside holding a metal detector wand, and he stops Daichi in the genkan.  Daichi nods, clasping his hands in front of him as the man waves the wand up and down his body.  Daichi leaves the watch on, waiting for the want to pass over it, beeping erratically, before finally turning it off, cutting off the feed to the surveillance van.

Now, he’s truly alone.

“You don’t have a weapon on you, do you Hara-san?” Kusudama arches an eyebrow, “Or maybe a wire?”

“No.”  _Think fast, think fast, think of something._ “I have a piercing.”

“A… piercing?”

“It’s in a,” Daichi swallows hard, “ _delicate_ place.”

Someone in earshot but out of Daichi’s eyeline laughs, and the corner of Kusudama’s mouth twitches up, “I imagine that’s quite pesky in your line of work.  You won’t mind if I have an associate double-check?”

_Jackpot_.  “You won’t mind if I choose which associate?”

Kusudama sweeps his arm across his chest, “Take your pick.  The bathroom is down the hallway to the right.”

“Oikawa,” Daichi mutters, gesturing for him to follow.  He thinks he hears Kuroo scoff, a bit indignant.

The walk to the bathroom feels like an eternity.  Oikawa’s steps are conspicuously loud against the floor, rattling in Daichi’s ear as he mulls over what to do next.  Unfortunately for him, and for Oikawa, Daichi’s instinct sees to take over the moment the bathroom door closes behind them, and he grips Oikawa’s collar firmly in one hand, slamming him up against the bathroom sink without a word.

“Please tell me you really do have a dick piercing,” Oikawa gasps out, fingers scrambling against Daichi’s fist as he tightens his grip.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

“If you stop – _gh! –_ choking me for a second, I could tell you!”

Daichi relinquishes his hold – reluctantly – and Oikawa smooths the wrinkles of his collared shirt, massaging his throat, “You’re so dramatic, Dai-chan.”

“That’s so rich coming from you.”

Oikawa considers this, perching himself on the edge of the sink, “That’s fair.  Does that make us a good team, or does it mean we’re incompatible?”

“Oikawa…”

“Right!  Back to the point at hand,” Oikawa crosses his legs, folding them so tightly he looks like a bit of origami, “You were supposed to make _me_ the criminal informant, not Tetsu-baka over there.  So, I had to take initiative myself.  Now I’m on the operation, and you can look like a hero bringing another hardened criminal into the fold.”

A sigh.  Daichi rests a hand on the vanity sink, so close to Oikawa that their knees knock together.  He makes a momentary note to stop having shady meetings with his ex-lovers in bathrooms, “I thought you and Kusudama were on the outs.”

“Not so, _mon ami_.  I hate him, but I never said _he_ hates _me._   He quite likes me, actually, the moron.”

“How convenient,” Daichi grumbles, “How do you expect me to convince Suga and the rest of the team to go along with bringing you in as an informant?  You’re a much higher-priority target than Kuroo, you know.  They’d rather put you in cuffs.”

It’s not meant as a compliment, but Oikawa obviously takes it as such, batting his eyelashes and flicking a bit of hair out of his eyes haughtily, “Maybe so, but I think they’ll come around.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’ll see!” Oikawa says, in that same annoying chirp that Daichi is becoming all-too familiar with.  _You’ll see –_ wasn’t Oikawa supposed to be keeping him in the loop from now on?  Weren’t they supposed to be partners, for whatever that was worth, for whatever that meant?  Being kept at arm’s length is gnawing at Daichi far more than he likes or is even want to admit.

But unfortunately, at the moment Daichi’s got the weight of the entire Tokyo White Collar Crimes Unit on his shoulders.  Which is to say, he’s got much more pressing things to deal with than his complicated feelings for Oikawa.

They exit the bathroom as innocently as possible – at least, as innocently as they can, considering Daichi is supposed to have just whipped out his dick for inspection.  “He’s telling the truth,” Oikawa announces as they head down the hallway, and Daichi turns his watch microphone back on, “He’s clean, and also quite hung I might add.”

“Oikawa…” this time it isn’t Daichi quietly admonishing Oikawa, but Kusudama himself, “You’re lucky I don’t mind your smart mouth.”’

“Most people love how smart my mouth is,” Oikawa smiles, “Let’s get started, shall we?”

 

+

 

If Daichi thought the extreme pressure and extraordinary circumstances of a heist audition would suddenly and miraculously improve his chess skills, he was sorely mistaken.

A few of Kusudama’s associates come out of the woodwork to watch the chess match, and despite the fact that they’re all criminals, Daichi is still embarrassed to have them witness his complete ineptitude at chess.  He has to hide a wince every time Kusudama topples one of his pieces, and Daichi loses his queen early on in the match, trying to imitate a flashy play Oikawa once pulled against him.  It goes without saying that he fails spectacularly.

It would be nice to take solace in the fact that Kusudama is silent as he plays – no quips or snickering or snide comments – but that persistent silence only amplifies Daichi’s nerves and makes him play worse.  He’s so used to Oikawa’s chatter as they play, the easy way he riffs on every move Daichi makes.  There’s none of that that this time, just dead silence.

Resigned to his loss, Daichi takes the opportunity to study Kusudama’s face close-up, memorizing features he’s seen only in grainy surveillance photos.  He’s not much older than Daichi, it seems, but he has a baby face free of any marks or scars, save for a smattering of freckles on the apples of his cheeks.  His light brown hair is slicked back, but Daichi suspects if Kusudama let his hair down he would look just like any other thirty-something roaming the streets of Tokyo; he could easily get lost in a crowd.

And, despite that, he still exerts an air of intimidation so thick it’s nearly suffocating.  Yakuza guys sure are scary.

“Check mate,” Kusudama corners Daichi’s king, “Not much of a chess player, are you?”

“Not really.”

“That’s a shame.  I was looking forward to having you join us.”

He stands up abruptly; Daichi mirrors his movements, smoothing a hand down his jacket lapel, “If you want a good chess player, try the park.  If you want a good thief, I’m already here.”

One of Kusudama’s associates, quiet thus far, grumbles under his breath, “It’s not just about _chess._   It’s about your foresight, your ability to form a strategy and adapt.  And it’s non-negotiable.”

“Don’t pretend to be such a stickler for tradition all of the sudden, Daishou,” Kuroo snorts.

Kusudama silences them both with just a movement of his hand, “They’re both right.  But I’m sure you understand why I’m so picky, considering why the job was even available in the first place.”

Daichi nods curtly, catching Oikawa’s eyes.  The bank heist they had foiled – Kusudama must know there was, and probably still is, a traitor among his associates.  That was the person who let slip information that made its way to Oikawa, who in turn passed it along to Daichi and the police.  Oikawa had seemed so sure White Collar would welcome him into the fold as an informant, which had to mean—

“I know who your traitor is.”

“… Pardon?”

Daichi clears his throat, repeats himself, “I know who your traitor is, the one who ruined the Tokyo One heist,” he tries to surreptitiously catch Oikawa’s eye, passing along some kind of silent message between the two of them, before turning back to Kusudama, “You and your friends might have time to be practicing your chess, but I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

This startles a laugh out of Kusudama, and Kuroo as well.  The man from earlier – Daishou – rolls his eyes, returning to sulk in his corner.  “Well?” Kusudama sits back down, gesturing across the room before folding his arms.

There’s about a half dozen people gathered in the room, save for Kusudama himself.  It should feel crowded, but the room still seems lonely due to the spartan décor – just two chairs, a table topped with the chess set, and a lamp in the corner.  The carpet has been pulled up recently, leaving the lonely, cold concrete exposed.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Daichi blinks at the noise, searching for its source and settling on the toe of Oikawa’s obnoxiously well-polished shoes, tapping against the concrete floor.  There’s a pause, then another triplet of taps against the floor.  If it were anyone else, Daichi might think it was a nervous tic. But Oikawa doesn’t get nervous, and he never seems to do anything without a purpose.

Oikawa, Kuroo, and the rest of Kusudama’s associates are arranged in a loose semicircle around the table where Kusudama sits, save for a bodyguard still guarding the front door.  _Tap, tap tap… One, two three._   Next to Oikawa is Kuroo – there’s one.  Next to him, a burly man with a jagged scar across his face – that’s two.

Then, a wiry man with round glasses and a nauseous look on his face – there’s three.

“Him,” Daichi decides, jutting his chin toward the thin man, “There’s your traitor.”

There’s a moment, just a second, when Daichi wonders if he’s just made a horrible, potentially life-ending mistake.  But then the wiry man turns on his heel and bolts out the back door as quick as lightning, the screen door shuttering behind him.  Kusudama shouts for his bodyguard, but he’s just a beat too late; Daichi watches the man run with surprising speed down a back alley and out of view.

Kusudama, for his part, looks unbothered and a bit impressed, “We’ll pick him up later.  But it seems that Hara-san here was correct.”

“We don’t know—” one of Kusudama’s associates pipes up but is quickly waved away.

“I have all the proof I need,” Kusudama stands up again, stretching his legs, “I’ll need a new tech guy though.  Tooru, is Shigeru available?”

Oikawa looks pleased; bringing in another Seijou member must be icing on the cake, “I’ll call him.”

Daichi bites his tongue, already dreading having Yahaba around, just another inside man to keep track of, “So, do I have a job or what?”

Kusudama’s eyes light up, and some kind of raw fight-or-flight instinct ignites in the pit of Daichi’s stomach as the other man rounds on him, grinning.

“Welcome to the team.”

 

+

 

“So, here’s the thing.  You’re telling me that you had unauthorized contact with a wanted criminal, acted recklessly on unconfirmed intel without consulting your team, and, on top of all that, you now want us to trust the leader of one of the most active white collar crime syndicates in the metropolitan area and bring him on as a confidential informant?  With little promise that he’ll actually make good on all of his elaborate claims?”

Well, Daichi thinks, it sounds worse when you lay it all out like that.

“I’m not asking that you _trust_ him, per se,” Daichi parses his words carefully, trying not to meet the eyes of Ukai or Kurokawa, each of them sitting on either side of the Superintendent-General.  All three of them together essentially make up Daichi’s death panel, and he is sure that this is the moment his career all comes crashing down.  And they don’t even know the _half_ of it yet.

Still, it’s worth a shot, “I’m asking that you trust _me_ , sir.  I’ve studied the intricacies of Seijou’s movements this past year and I believe Oikawa-san is sincere in his desire to take down Kusudama.”

“Kusudama _is_ Seijou’s biggest competition,” Kurokawa grumbles, “I’m not surprised he’d want to take him out of business.”

“His motives are different, but our aim here is the same,” Daichi scratches at the back of his neck, “Plus, he did kind of save my life today.  Sir.”

That seems to sway the Superintendent, but he hardly looks happy as he gives Daichi his okay and asks Kurokawa to keep as tight a leash as possible on Oikawa.  Daichi doesn’t have the heart to tell them that Oikawa has probably chewed through every leash that’s ever been strung around his neck.

The sun has long since set by the time Daichi emerges from the conference room, mountains of paperwork piling up in his backpack, waiting to be completed.  The stale air and oncoming exhaustion is starting to get to him.  God, he hasn’t eaten in _hours._

“Hungry?”

Daichi has never found Sugawara as angelic and beautiful as he has like this, appearing in front of Daichi and dangling a bag of the greasiest fast food in Tokyo between his thumb and forefinger.

“Starving, actually.”

They eat out in the courtyard, and Daichi fills his lungs with the fresh, warm air and the smell of salt and meat.  Everyone else has gone home for the day, so they have their pick of benches, and decide to perch on one with a warm lamppost overhead, illuminating their banquet as Suga spreads it out between them.

“’re you mad?” Daichi mumbles through a bite of his hamburger.

Suga considers the question, and the fry between his fingers, “Yeah,” he decides, “But I figure you got enough of a dressing down already.”

“And then some.”

“Well, I was really, _really_ mad.  But then I remembered how unruly I can be when I go undercover.  I guess neither of us like staying on script,” Suga laughs, “Plus I got to take out my anger on Oikawa and your sweet little Kuroo-kun.”

“Oh god,” Daichi massages the bridge of his nose.  He had completely forgotten about their onboarding interview, “Why would you put them in a room together?”

Suga snickers, which is never a good sign, “They behaved.  Well, for the most part.  Oikawa said something off-color about your, uh, _physique_ , and Kuroo nearly blew a blood vessel.”

That sounds about right.  Daichi would be mortified if he weren’t so damn tired.

“Actually,” Suga takes a bite of his own burger, speaking with his mouth full.  He really isn’t quite as delicate as the women around the office who moon over him would like, “The hardest person to manage was Kageyama.”

“I’m not surprised.”  Kageyama may come off as a goody-two-shoes, but he’s a lot more trouble than he lets on.

“Had to send him out with the group to bring back Kusudama’s runner,” Suga frowns, “His history with Oikawa is no joke.”  Daichi nods, but when he asks Suga if Kageyama also confided in him about the time he was almost held hostage, Suga frowns deeper.

“Well, you know they also grew up together?”

“What?!” Daichi chokes on a bit of lettuce, “When did he tell you that?”

A shrug, “We got drinks one night after a shift.  That kid really can’t hold his liquor.”  Daichi gives Suga a _look_ , but Suga presses on, “Anyway, I guess it’s not fair to say they grew up together, they just went to the same middle school for one year.  Kageyama idolized him.”

“That explains why he’s so obsessed with him.”

“Doesn’t explain why _you’re_ so obsessed with Oikawa, though,” Suga hums, taking a long and pointed sip of his soda.

Daichi, in turn, spits a bit of his own soda down the front of his shirt, “I’m not—”

“Shut up, Daichi.  Tell me what the hell is going on with you two.”

_You two_ – Daichi almost doesn’t have the heart to correct him, because this whole situation has spiraled out from just the two of them to include Iwaizumi, and now even Kuroo.  Not to mention the rest of Seijou.  And Daichi still hasn’t figured out what Oikawa’s end game is in all of this, too tangled up in all the diversions and, frankly, his own emotions.  Suga is the one who always manages to find a way out of difficult situations, he’s the one Daichi has always leaned on during situations that require more than just will and some brute force.

So, if Daichi can’t trust Suga, who can he trust?

Finally, Daichi sighs, “Let me start at the beginning.”

 

+

 

**To: Sawamura Daichi**  
From: Unknown  
Received: 20XX 07 06 20:14  
HI DAICHAN PLEASE MEET ME TOMORROW AT MY PLACE  
PLZ AND THANK UUUU

**To: Unknown**  
From: Sawamura Daichi  
Received: 20XX 07 06 20:16  
I need to actually know where your place is to meet you there, you know.  
(What’s with the caps lock?)

**To: Sawamura Daichi**  
From: Unknown  
Received: 20XX 07 06 20:16  
SILLY DAICHAN YOU ALREADY KNOW WHERE I LIVE!  
(MY PHONE IS BROKEN I ALSO CANNOT USE KAOMOJI PLEASE RESPECT ME DURING THIS TIME OF HARDSHIP)

**To: Unknown**  
From: Sawamura Daichi  
Received: 20XX 07 06 20:17  
I definitely don’t know your address.  
(It’s what you deserve.)

**To: Sawamura Daichi**  
From: Unknown  
Received: 20XX 07 06 20:18  
I ALREADY GAVE YOU THE ADDRESS!!!  
MAYBE YOU JUST NEED TO LOOK AGAIN  
(RUDE AND UNNECCESSARY)

 

+

 

The letters.  That’s where Daichi starts, pulling out a box from his closet, one that hasn’t yet had the time to start collecting dust, one that contains all the letters Oikawa sent Daichi during their year apart.  ( _Their year apart_ … when had Daichi started thinking about the past year like that?)

A birthday card, a Valentine’s Day card, even an inexplicably well-timed _Get Well Soon_ card received while Daichi was fighting off the flu.  Although, knowing know that Iwaizumi had been keeping pretty close tabs on Daichi, maybe it wasn’t so inexplicable after all.

No return addresses, just like Daichi remembered.  But Oikawa had said to look again, and if Daichi has learned anything in the past few days, it’s that Iwaizumi really wasn’t kidding when he said Oikawa never does anything without a reason.

There was something so sad in the way Iwaizumi had said it, a kind of resignation Daichi is starting to become more familiar with the more time he spends with Oikawa.  But there’s a part of Daichi, a not-so-insignificant part, that can’t help but admire Oikawa’s calculation, the pure foresight of it.

Each card is decorated on the inside with a variety of stickers and doodles.  Somehow, Daichi doesn’t really think Oikawa is the doodling type.

He sighs, resigned, opens a notebook, and gets to work.

 

 

Oikawa hadn’t specified a time to meet, and Daichi’s texts and emails bounce back; Oikawa’s probably already ditched the burner phone he used to text Daichi.  So, Daichi settles on 9 o’clock as a good enough time as any to meet. 

The moon is high overhead and the street is bare and washed clean by the salty air as Daichi rounds the corner toward Oikawa’s neighborhood.  Familiar shapes start to take form as he gets closer to where Oikawa had taken him before, and to where the meetup with Kusudama took place.  Daichi peeks in the window of Kusudama’s meeting place as he passes – completely empty, as expected.

As per usual, Oikawa didn’t take it easy on Daichi.  Inside each of the cards were patterns of stickers that Daichi had assumed were just an annoying eccentricity on Oikawa’s part.  Only after a lot of time on Google Maps and even more time racking his own brain did Daichi finally figure out what Oikawa had meant.

Daichi retraces Oikawa’s steps, to where they had spoken just a few days earlier.  He’s lucky that his memory has served him well – behind a large telephone pole is a house tucked away between two larger homes.  It wouldn’t stand out if not for a distinctive feature: a large, semi-circular stained-glass window on the door, depicting a beach scene.

In Oikawa’s letters, of course, that had been depicted through three seashell stickers, a sun drawn with glitter pen, and a drawing of a very small house, all spread throughout several otherwise inconspicuous letters.  Only someone as anal retentive as Oikawa could dream up such a message, and only someone as completely obsessed as Daichi could actually puzzle it out.

The window scene is as dead as the night air, no light coming from inside or out, but Daichi knocks anyway.  He knows who’s inside.

A pause.  A shuffle from inside.  And then, an older gentleman answers the door, looking altogether too calm for someone greeting a stranger outside their house in the dead of night.

“Can I help you?”

“Um...” Daichi sweeps his eyes across the dark living room behind the older man.  Nothing suspicious in the least, save for the complete darkness of it all.  Maybe he had overthought this whole thing?  Maybe Oikawa was just playing coy, maybe they don’t actually have a house or a headquarters, maybe this was all just something to make Daichi look stupid, or—

“Oh,” the man laughs, perhaps reading the panic on Daichi’s face, “You must be here for those two.”

_Those two_ certainly sounds like a euphemism for Oikawa and Iwaizumi.  Daichi nods curtly.

“Round the back, the basement door is behind that big bush,” the man makes a round movement with his arms, perhaps indicating the size of the bush, “With the red berries, can’t miss it.”

He closes the door unceremoniously on Daichi, who blinks in surprise.  But, as it turns out, the door is as easy to find as the man had promised, at least for someone who already knows that it’s there.  Around the back of the house, out of sight from the street, and hidden from view of neighbors by two large oak trees, is a basement entrance, sunk into the ground and shuttered by two large wooden doors.  It’s masked by a bush, weighty with large red berries.  Daichi considers tasting one, then thinks better of it.

The door slides open with a satisfying _thunk!_ and Daichi closes it behind him as he steps inside what seems to be an empty, unlit room.  Police training has drilled preparedness into Daichi’s skull firmly enough that he reaches instantly for the small flashlight on his hip, clicking it on and sweeping across what is revealed as an empty hallway, leading down to a large bolted door.  It looks heavily reinforced, like a bomb shelter, but there’s the smallest sliver of light seeping through the bottom, painting the toes of Daichi’s boots in soft, yellow light.

Oikawa is the most overly-prepared person Daichi knows.  Which means that, as he steps further into the hallway, Daichi expects some kind of ungodly trial, or nigh-unsolvable puzzle necessary to opening the door.  And as for what’s behind the door, it’s likely some kind of high-tech crime bunker, outfitted with weapons and screens for tracking marks.  (Well, maybe Daichi’s imagination is getting away from him there.)

What Daichi _doesn’t_ expect is for the door to be unlocked.  He doesn’t expect to be able to open it with absolutely no resistance.  And he certainly doesn’t expect getting an eyeful of Oikawa’s naked ass.

“Fu- _uck!_!” Oikawa is perched on top of Iwaizumi’s thighs, riding his lap like his life depends on it, lost in the moment and so drowned in his own moans and whimpers that he doesn’t notice Daichi enter the room, mouth agape.

Iwaizumi, bless his heart, notices immediately, swatting Oikawa’s arm and barking something incoherent.

“Yeah, yeah, slap me a little,” Oikawa babbles, planting his hands down on Iwaizumi’s bare chest, “I’m so close.”

“N-No, you moron!” Iwaizumi is still a bit tongue-tied, but this time manages to get Oikawa’s attention.  Oikawa whines – this time out of annoyance, rather than pleasure – and cocks his head to the left.

“Oh!  Dai-chan!  What a surprise!”

“A surprise—You’re the one who invited me!” Daichi knows he should have the wherewithal to cover his eyes, but they’re drawn like a magnet to the soft curve of Oikawa’s back – and then to Iwaizumi, and the canvass of colorful skin spiraling down his arms, scales of red and orange popping out against dark brown skin.  There’s another large piece on Iwaizumi’s left arm that Daichi can’t quite see, and he has to stop himself from stepping closer to get a better look.

Finally – _finally, you creep_ , Daichi thinks to himself – Daichi turns around and closes his eyes, “Can you just—become decent.”

“Hard pass,” Oikawa laughs, and though Daichi can’t see him, he knows Oikawa has a shit-eating grin on his face, “Iwa-chan and I were finishing up anyway, but you can join us next time.”  Daichi chooses not to respond, frankly for fear of his voice cracking with anxiety.  So, he stays firmly turned away, staring at the inside of his palm.

Iwaizumi grumbles under his breath, and there’s the sound of bare skin hitting the floor – that’d probably be Oikawa, dumped unceremoniously off the bed by Iwaizumi.  _Fine, fine_ , Oikawa whines, and when Daichi turns around Oikawa has shucked on a shirt and some sweatpants.  Iwaizumi is absent, probably still in the bathroom.

Or, whatever passes for a bathroom in their strange, basement apartment.  The room is nothing like Daichi imagined, looking less like a high-tech syndicate hideout and more like a twenty-something’s bachelor pad.  The basement is one huge room, save for the separate bathroom, and a makeshift kitchen in the far corner, made up of portable appliances and crates stacked up to serve as cabinets.  There’s a large bed, a huge couch, and a least three TVs, all lined up next to each other.  Other than that, the decoration is Spartan: a few rugs breaking up the room, a card table with folding chairs, a dresser overflowing with unfolded clothes, a poster of a band that Daichi doesn’t recognize.

“Welcome to our chateau,” Oikawa deadpans, walking toward the electric kettle to put on some tea, “You couldn’t wait a few more minutes?  I’ve got blue balls to hell and back now.”

“You could’ve put a sock on your massive, bolted door,” Daichi says, pulling out a chair and sitting down, folding his arms.

“What a great visual,” Oikawa laughs, leaning against the counter (or, well, what serves as a kitchen counter), and smiling over at Daichi, “Wanna take bets on when Iwa-chan will finally come out of the bathroom?  I bet he’s mortified that you had to see his obscenely sculpted thighs.”

“Shut up, Shittykawa.”  They don’t even have time to make bets.  Iwaizumi emerges from the bathroom, face still a bit pink, but looking no worse for the wear.

“Good to see you, Iwaizumi,” Daichi says, mouth tilting, “Clothed, that is.”

“Ha ha,” Iwaizumi laughs dryly, taking a seat across the table from Daichi, “I’d shake your hand, but I think we’ve been aquatinted enough for the time being.”

Oikawa snorts out a laugh, finishing up the tea and bringing three piping hot mugs to the table.  Daichi smiles wanly, staring into the amber liquid – hadn’t he known that Oikawa and Iwaizumi where a thing?  Wasn’t that obvious?  It was even spelled out in their police files, a warning that they would do anything for each other, that they would never stand for the other person being in distress.  Did Daichi really think that Oikawa was doing anything other than just toying with him?  Did he actually want it to be real?

Daichi isn’t sure he’s equipped to manage the flurry of emotions – disappointment, confusion, arousal (most embarrassing of all) – so he decides not to even try.  Not at the moment, anyway, with Oikawa prattling on about something and Iwaizumi staring at him from over the rim of his mug like he’s trying to solve a crossword puzzle.

“So, you in?”

“Huh?” Daichi blinks over at Oikawa, who’s looking at him expectantly.

Iwaizumi smiles, “He wasn’t listening.”

“Rude!”

“Nah, it’s a defense mechanism,” Iwaizumi says, tipping his head toward Daichi, “He knows you well enough already to be tired of your shit.”

Daichi takes a pointed sip of his tea, “I’m sorry, just repeat what you said.”

“Nope!” Oikawa turns away with a sniff, “You’ll just have to follow Iwa-chan’s lead.”

Daichi turns to Iwaizumi for help but gets only a shrug.

“By the way,” Oikawa leans in toward Daichi, giving him a nigh-inappropriate once-over, “What size are you?”

Daichi barely has time to answer before Oikawa is circling him like a vulture, nodding and humming to himself, then darting off to the closet.  He returns with an armful of clothes and a gleeful look on his face.

“How about a fashion show?”

 

 

An hour later, and gussied up without any further explanation from Oikawa, Daichi and a similarly well-dressed Iwaizumi meet up with a black sedan out front.  They slide into the back seat and barely have time to buckle their seatbelts before the driver takes off, zooming down the street and around the corner without a word.

_Make me proud, boys!_ Oikawa had said, waving Daichi and Iwaizumi out of the apartment without another word, after admiring his work on Daichi’s outfit.  All the clothes are borrowed – presumably from Iwaizumi, considering how the shirt hangs just a bit loose on Daichi’s shoulders.

“How do I look?”

Iwaizumi gives Daichi a once-over before coughing awkwardly and looking away, not meeting Daichi’s gaze, “Fine.  Good.  You look good.”

“Wow, don’t wear yourself out,” Daichi mutters, raising an eyebrow, “You gonna tell me what the hell we’re doing, now?”

Iwaizumi tugs on the collar of his button-down shirt, clearly uncomfortable, “I—sorry about that, yeah.”  He pulls his phone out and thumbs through his photos, landing on a picture of an average-looking man, with a square jaw and a close-cropped haircut.

“Our target,” Iwaizumi explains.  The man is a part-time security guard with the National Museum scheduled to work the night of the heist, “And we need to copy his security card.  Which is what this is for,” Iwaizumi pulls something out of his back pocket, a slim black box no larger than a wallet, “If we get close enough to him for long enough, this will make a copy of his card without him ever knowing.”

Daichi hums, examining the card copier before Iwaizumi slips it back in his pocket, “Well, I’m mildly horrified to say this, but it seems easy enough.  How do we know he’ll have his card on him?”

“He just came off a shift this afternoon.  We’ve had eyes on him for a while.”

“Of course,” Daichi deadpans.  He’s getting a little tired of how well informed Seijou seems to be, even if it comes at no surprise.  No—that’s not it.  Daichi’s always liked a challenge.  He likes being pushed out of his comfort zone, he likes testing his limits.  So, what’s different about this?

Maybe it’s the fact that Oikawa and Iwaizumi know just how to get under his skin, pulling back pretext and dragging Daichi along, kicking and screaming.  Maybe it’s just that Daichi’s never been so effectively challenged before.  Maybe he’s met his match.

The driver of the sedan must be a Seijou associate, but Daichi can’t see him through the privacy divider, a pane of black glass separating the front seat from the back.  He’s curious, but not enough to ask about it.  Actually, he’s curious about a lot of things, so many that he doesn’t even know where to start, doesn’t know which questions Iwaizumi would actually answer.  So, he watches the street lights instead, zipping past the window in streaks that blur as Daichi unfocuses his eyes, leaning back to rest his head against the leather interior.  He was more tired than he realized.

“Oikawa wasn’t lying.  Just so you know.”

“… Huh?”

Iwaizumi’s words are clipped, a bit tense, like he’s reading from a script, “He wasn’t lying, or leading you on, or whatever you’re thinking right now.  He’s not that kind of person.  _I’m_ not that kind of person.”

Daichi blinks once, twice.  “I wasn’t thinking that,” even though he was.

Iwaizumi exhales hard, eyes fixed firmly on the seat in front of him.  Somewhere along the line, Daichi became more familiar with Iwaizumi’s face than he realized, and he sees now that it’s not worry or guilt painting Iwaizumi’s features; it’s earnestness, pure and simple.  A begging to be heard, to be understood.  Daichi can see years of dismissal in the furrow of Iwaizumi’s brows, years of everyone writing Iwaizumi off as a yakuza thug or a petty criminal.  The thought of it hurts Daichi more than he was prepared for.

“Hey, um,” Daichi reaches out a hand and hesitates, before finally resting it on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, “I’m not—I wasn’t expecting anything.  And I think you and I both know there are more mitigating factors here than whether or not you and Oikawa are together.”

“Fair enough,” Iwaizumi laughs, turning toward Daichi with a wry smile, “Maybe in another life.  I wouldn’t mind having you around.”

“High praise,” Daichi grumbles, but he’s smiling too.  It _is_ high praise, all things told.  Seijou’s bonds, their roots are so intertwined that; reading through the endless police files and psychological profiles, Daichi couldn’t imagine someone ever breaking through.

And yet, he did.

Daichi throat feels a bit dry, “So, why couldn’t Oikawa come to this place himself?  And why am I here if the job’s so simple?”

“Well,” the car stops, and Iwaizumi unbuckles his seatbelt, “The owner of this place considers Oikawa his arch-enemy.  So, better to leave him at home.”

“But _you’re_ fine, apparently,” Daichi jokes, realizing that he never actually asked where it was they were driving to, “What is this place, anyway?”

“Oh,” Iwaizumi bites at the inside of his cheek, holding back a laugh as he opens the door, “It’s a gay bar.”

 

 

This is not Daichi’s first gay bar.  It is, however, his _gayest_ gay bar experience to date.

It takes only a second for Daichi to understand why Iwaizumi couldn’t have arrived alone.  Without a human buffer, it’s clear Iwaizumi would be mobbed in seconds.  Hell, even _with_ Daichi present as a human buffer, nearly a dozen men try to make a move on Iwaizumi in the first ten minutes alone.  (Daichi conspicuously ignores how much that annoys him.)

Except, when he jokes about this to Iwaizumi— “They’re not trying to hit on me.  They’re hitting on you.”

“Sorry… what?”

“Oh no,” Iwaizumi’s mouth twists into a smile, and Daichi’s eyes fixate on the way the dimple in his cheek flexes, “Sorry, man, you’re the distraction.  Honestly, it’s like I’m dangling a fresh bit of meat in front of some wolves.”

Daichi’s face cycles through at least ten different shades of red, “That’s—I’m not sure I like that.”

Iwaizumi ducks his head to hide his laugh, “Will you feel better if I buy you a drink and glare at everyone who tries to approach you?”

“Yes, actually.”

Iwaizumi catches the bartender’s attention, grabbing two beers before steering Daichi deeper into the club.  They climb a spiral staircase to the second-floor balconies that hang over the dance floor.  From that height, the dance floor looks like a shimmering jewel, rainbow lights reflecting off sweaty bodies and bouncing across body jewelry and glittery decorations.  It’s hard to figure out where one person ends and another begins, much less distinguish the face of their target.

Daichi leans against the balcony railing and squints, “Dunno if we’re going to be able to see our guy from up here.”

“We’ll see him,” Iwaizumi assures, but he doesn’t explain why.  He just goes silent, nursing his drink, radiating warmth that Daichi can feel from the point where their shoulders are flush.  But as it turns out, Iwaizumi really doesn’t have to explain.

“Jesus, you see that guy?” Daichi zeroes in on a man walking into the bar who has to duck to make it though the doorway.  He’s massive, well over six feet, and towers over the rest of the crowd in a way that’s almost comical.

“I sure do,” Iwaizumi smiles, downing the rest of his beer and making a jerking motion with his neck, indicating Daichi should follow him, “Now, let’s go get our guy.”

“Oh—shit, okay,” Daichi considers his drink, and decides to just ditch it instead of finishing it.  Somehow, he gets the feeling he should stay as sober as possible around Iwaizumi.

They head back downstairs, where it’s a bit trickier to spot their target among the crowd.  Unsurprisingly, his height makes him quite popular, and there’s a small crowd of men around him, each of them flirting for their lives.  Getting close to their target is starting to look more challenging than Daichi originally thought, especially when the man chooses a dance partner and whisks him onto the dance floor.

“Maybe I need to get out more,” Daichi mumbles, rubbing at his face, feeling a headache bloom behind his eyes.  Watching the crowd out on the dance floor, it starts to look more like one living organism than separate entities, all twisting limbs, the bass a thrumming heartbeat.

Iwaizumi shrugs, “At least you’re not a wanted man.”

Before Daichi has time for a quip, Iwaizumi has grabbed him round the arm, tugging him around the periphery of the dance floor to an unoccupied spot between the wall and a large speaker.  Their target is just a few feet away, hopefully within the radius of Iwaizumi’s card copier.

“Are we—oh, shit, okay.”

It’s an obvious choice, of course, to lay low and avoid looking suspicious by pretending to be just another couple patronizing the bar.  And yet, Daichi is still caught of guard when Iwaizumi cages him against the wall, one arm extended, palm flat against the tacky wallpaper, the other arm wrapped around Daichi’s waist.  Iwaizumi’s hand traces absentminded circles on the small of Daichi’s back, and Daichi is grateful that Iwaizumi looks over his shoulder to check on their target, missing Daichi’s quick inhale of breath and darkening face.  The speaker is so close that Daichi can feel the beats of the music vibrating up the soles of his feet.  He can hardly hear his own thoughts, but with Iwaizumi taking up so much of his personal space, Daichi is suddenly grateful for that.

“This is good,” Iwaizumi mumbles, and he’s so close that Daichi can feel the rumble of his voice, the hot breath dancing along Daichi’s cheek.  He forgets for a second what they’re even talking about, what they’re even doing.  Shouldn’t he put his hands somewhere?  This is awkward, right, to just leave his hands limp and useless at his side?  Besides, wouldn’t it feel nice to hold Iwaizumi, to feel the muscles flex under his hand?

“My back pocket,” Iwaizumi whispers, startling Daichi enough that his hands twitch, finally coming up to rest on either side of Iwaizumi’s waist.  Daichi wonders if he imagines the momentary flex of Iwaizumi’s abs, “The card copier’s in my left back pocket.  When I say so, hold down the button.  It will beep and vibrate a bit when it’s got a copy of the card.”

“I’m—I’m doing what?”

“Just do it,” Iwaizumi mumbles, but there’s a hint of a laugh in his voice, “And I promise we won’t tell Oikawa.”

Daichi huffs out a laugh, leaning in closer to spy their target over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, “Well, who knows.  He’d probably like that.”

“You know him too well.”

Daichi steels his nerves before finally slipping his hand into Iwaizumi’s left back pocket, feeling for the card reader, pointer finger hovering over the button, waiting for Iwaizumi’s cue.  _Now, he’s close._   Daichi presses down on the button, waiting for it to read the card, but the man moves away at the last second, and Iwaizumi curses under his breath.

“Time to get mobile,” Daichi says, sliding his free hand into Iwaizumi’s other back pocket, and stepping forward, forcing Iwaizumi off the wall.  They’re chest-to-chest now, the same height, and Daichi curses his momentary bravery when he catches Iwaizumi’s eyes with his own, looking emerald and glimmering in the dim light of the club.  Iwaizumi blinks down at Daichi before grinning.  Daichi responds by hiding his face immediately in the crux of Iwaizumi’s collar bone.

He lets Iwaizumi take the lead, whisking and shimmying them across the dance floor, following their target.  When the time is perfect, he gives Daichi the signal, and Daichi presses down on the card copier.  He prays for the sake of his ill-timed half-boner that this is the one.

“And… got it!” Daichi hears the beep, just as his back collides with someone much taller and much, much larger.

“Ah, sorry about that,” Iwaizumi grips Daichi’s waist, pulling him back.  It’s the man they’ve been trailing, now looking down at Daichi and Iwaizumi with a trace of annoyance.  He studies Daichi’s face a bit too carefully.

“Hey,” he reaches a hand out, and Daichi flinches away, “You two need a third?”

“No!” Daichi blurts out, and the whole proposition is so absurd he has to bite back a laugh, “I mean, no thank you.”

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi looks like he’s holding back a laugh too, eyes mirthful and dancing with some unknown intent as he locks eyes again with Daichi, “We already have a third.”

 

 

+

 

 

The ride home is quiet; once outside the club, Daichi follows Iwaizumi as he makes a beeline to what must be their designated getaway car.  The driver says nothing, and neither does Iwaizumi, who pulls out his card copier and double-checks to make sure everything looks correct.  He seems pleased, but tired, and Daichi doesn’t mind sitting and enjoying the silence.  It’s rare, to enjoy the sound of someone else breathing, to find calm in it.  But Daichi does, and he finds himself nearly nodding off listening to the soft rise and fall of Iwaizumi’s chest.

“So, how’s it feel?”

“Huh?” Daichi turns his head, and Iwaizumi is looking at him with expectant eyes.

“Being a criminal.”

Iwaizumi looks serious, like he wants a real answer, but Daichi can’t help but laugh, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.  God, he needs a shower, “Honestly?  Not too much different from being a cop.”

Iwaizumi arches an eyebrow, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Daichi repeats, “Which is to say, I’m constantly tired, stressed out, in danger, and surrounded by strange, muscular men.”

It takes less than a second for Iwaizumi to finally crack, and when he does, he starts laughing so hard that Daichi can’t help but join in, until he’s doubled over clutching his stomach.  They’re still hysterical when the car finally comes to a stop, jolting them both forward.  Iwaizumi wipes a tear from his eye and opens the door, gesturing for Daichi to follow.  Daichi’s been following Iwaizumi around a lot tonight; honestly, he doesn’t hate it.

They make their way around the house to the basement entrance, and Iwaizumi uses his phone to light up the dark hallway, “Irihata-san is crazy to let me and Oikawa stay here,” he whispers, and Daichi isn’t sure if Iwaizumi is talking to him or to himself, so he just stays quiet and lets him talk, “It’s crazy to let two wanted criminals sleep in your basement, right?”

They open the door to the apartment and Iwaizumi put his phone away.  Oikawa’s left one light on for them, a lamp in the corner of the room next to the couch.  It’s bright enough that the edges of its light reach the bed on the other side of the room, illuminating the shape of Oikawa bundled under the covers.  His feet are sticking out, though, from the bottom of the comforter.

“He sleeps so stupid,” Iwaizumi snorts, but his words are dripping in fondness.  He heads to the kitchen, but Daichi walks to the bed, cocking his head to the side to watch the way the Oikawa-sized lump under the blanket rises and falls with each breath.  Unconsciously, he reaches out to tug the comforter down, covering Oikawa’s feet.

“You beat me to it,” Iwaizumi says, handing Daichi a glass of water, “Here, otherwise I’m worried you’ll pass out on the way home.”

“Thanks,” Daichi hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.  He downs the glass in two large gulps, “Ah, so.  Irihata-san is…”

“The man you met,” Iwaizumi nods, “He knew us as kids, me and Oikawa.  When I needed a place to hide, after Oikawa got me out of prison—”

“Allegedly,” Daichi adds.

Iwaizumi smiles, “Allegedly, of course.  Well, we reached out on a long shot.  But Irihata-san didn’t hesitate at all, he put his life on the line for us.  He takes care of us, even when we don’t deserve it.”

“You deserve it,” Daichi says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can even think about it.  But it’s not a lie.  Thinking about the way Oikawa fought for Iwaizumi’s freedom, for his dignity, seeing the gentle way Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa even when Oikawa can’t see— Daichi can’t believe anything other than that these two people deserve to be happy.

Iwaizumi looks like he wants to say something.  He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.  What finally comes out is, “You wanna crash here tonight?”

“I’m, uh,” Daichi worries his bottom lip between his teeth, “I should be okay.”

“You sure?” Iwaizumi takes Daichi’s empty glass, places it on the side table to be washed another day, “It’s pretty late, the busses aren’t running.”

“I’ll call a cab,” Daichi waves Iwaizumi away, ignoring the heaviness in his eyelids, and the comforting idea of sleeping next to a warm body for once.

Iwaizumi looks half-convinced, but lets it go anyway, “Okay, man.  You did good tonight, by the way.  You’d make a hell of a criminal.”

“In another life,” Daichi answers wryly, and Iwaizumi smiles.  How many lives would it take before they could meet each other without complications?  Daichi wonders.

“Well, thanks for the help.  And for putting up with Oikawa, as usual.”

And for putting up with Oikawa, as usual.”

“It’s no problem.  I had fun.”  That, too, is the truth.

Iwaizumi walks Daichi out, waves him off as Daichi hops in a cab.  Daichi falls asleep in the cab and ends up tipping the driver way too well.  At home, Yuki leaps at Daichi as soon as he walks through the door, and he feels a bit guilty about leaving her alone for so long.  (At least, until he finds a note on his fridge: _I walked Yuki and fed her.  – Yahaba  P.S. it’s not because I like you it’s because I like Yuki!!!)_

It’s another night where sleep should find Daichi easily, and it’s another night when it doesn’t.  He lies awake for hours before finally drifting off, wishing that he had spent the night after all.

 

 

+

 

 

It’s remarkable how normal it feels, being a criminal.

Daichi wakes up at the same time he always has, eats the same breakfast as always, and arrives at the office as promptly as usual – except that now, his office is usually a shady, off-the-grid warehouse, rather than the police bureau.

“I thought this was, like, a trope,” Daichi says aside to Kuroo, squinting through early-morning fog to make out the rest of the crew standing conspicuously apart form each other, “I’ve never tracked any syndicate that met in places like this.”

“That’s because you’ve been messing with those high-profile white-collar criminals,” Kuroo laughs, “This is my world now, baby.”

Oikawa cuts through the fog with a withering look, “Unironically calling someone ‘baby,’ that’s a new one for Kuroo Tetsurou Bingo.”

Oikawa and Kuroo… do not get along.  It’s not a surprise, really; Daichi had suspected they had some former history, having run in the same circles for so long.  But he’s surprised at how bothered Oikawa seems to be every time Kuroo talks to Daichi, how unsettled and twitchy he looks.  Daichi can’t help leaning on Kuroo for guidance, so used to it from years of engrained muscle memory.  Across the room, Oikawa glares at them with all the comfort of a man with a colony of ants skittering up his spine.  Daichi isn’t sure yet what to make of it.

To be fair, Daichi’s not sure what to make of Kuroo either.  He seems both the same as ever, and like he’s entirely new.  And they still haven’t talked about Oikawa.

The main Kusudama crew takes form pretty quickly after Daichi joins.  He spends, blessedly, most of his time working on reconnaissance with Kuroo or Oikawa, or sometimes even Yahaba, who comes on to replace Kusudama’s traitor of a tech expert.  Having another familiar face around should be reassuring, but it starts to feel more and more troublesome.  Daichi is constantly walking on eggshells around the rest of Kusudama’s crew, waiting for something to crack.

They meet sporadically throughout the next few weeks, splitting into teams of two or three to run what start to feel like errands for Kusudama.  Casing buildings around the museum, monitoring employees, picking up materials from black market dealers across the city.  Each time, Suga sends Kageyama along in a surveillance vehicle to monitor Daichi, and each time the day passes without incident – save for the time Daichi has to spend time alone with Daishou and nearly clocks him out of annoyance.  Truth be told, working this operation is starting to feel a bit too much like a regular office job.

There are some marked differences, beginning with the absence of Suga in most of Daichi’s daily life. He’d grown used to having someone to kick his ass into gear every once in a while.  But ever since opening up to Suga about the truth of the Oikawa situation, Suga has been keeping his distance.

“To protect you,” Suga had said, and Daichi was floored as usual by Suga’s ability to roll with the punches.  He looked barely fazed when Daichi told the truth about his relationship with Oikawa and Seijou, “If something goes wrong, we need to prioritize you over any of our confidential informants.  And I don’t want you getting in trouble if I let something slip.”

“Fair enough.  Plus it helps you save your own ass.”

Suga grinned, a familiar slice of white across his face, “You know I love plausible deniability.”

Now, instead of Suga greeting Daichi every morning with his favorite coffee cup filled to the brim with shitty police bureau coffee, there’s Oikawa, who hands Daichi a different kind of overly-sugary latte every day, lets him take one sip, and then snatches the cup back.

 “Are you… are you using me as a poison tester?”

“What?” Oikawa balks, pressing a hand to his chest, “I would _never._   I’m testing to see if the barista put in all my requested syrup pumps, of course.  I can tell if they didn’t by how much your nose scrunches up.”  Oikawa looks very matter-of-fact, and Daichi lets the issue die.

Sometimes, Oikawa will dispatch Yahaba to do his coffee dirty work, and the younger man will look on with something akin to pity as Daichi dutifully takes a sip, wrinkles his nose at the unbearable sweetness, then hands the cup back.

“Oikawa is definitely using me as his poison tester, isn’t he?” Daichi asks one day, before sipping something that tastes, for once, like normal coffee rather than the saccharine disaster Oikawa is so partial to.

Yahaba rolls his eyes, “As if.  Oikawa would kill me and everyone else in a fifteen-mile radius if anything happened to you,” and, upon seeing the small way Daichi’s face falls in quiet realization, Yahaba adds, “You do know that… right?”

Daichi takes another sip of his coffee, and maybe he’s been getting to use to how Oikawa takes his coffee, because he thinks to himself that it could use a couple sugars, “Yeah.  I think I know.”

A frown, “You can’t _think_ you know something.  You either know it, or you don’t.”

“Then, yeah, sure.  I know.”

“Good,” Yahaba still doesn’t look convinced, and Daichi gets the feeling he’s just been tested.  And failed, “That coffee’s yours, by the way.”

Daichi blinks in surprise, looking over Yahaba’s shoulder to see Oikawa already nursing his own coffee, “Well, thanks.  That’s really nice of you.”

“Whatever,” Yahaba stammers the word out, turning away with a wave, “Oikawa and Iwaizumi may have decided you’re cool for now, but don’t get too used to us being so chummy.”

“Sure thing,” Daichi says, but he gets the feeling he already has.

 

 

Daishou is in charge today, which means everyone is miserable.

He and Kuroo have been arguing for the better part of an hour by the time Oikawa finally steps in, fully caffeinated and ready to knock some heads together.  It’s looking more and more like they’re not going to get anything constructive done today, so Daichi sends a quick text to Kageyama, telling him to head back to the office for the day instead of wasting his time following Daichi around.

_Suga-san won’t like that_ Kageyama writes back.

_Suga-san also wouldn’t like you ignoring a direct order from me, would he?_

_Noted._ Kageyama writes, and a second later Daichi hears his comm line go dead.

“I think I’m gonna… go,” Daichi says, waiting for a lull in the argument.  Even then, it takes a second for Daishou, Kuroo, and Oikawa to turn to him, eyes blinking in unison.

“Wait, I—” Daishou says, “Don’t go yet.  I need you and shit-for-brains over here,” he throws a thumb toward Kuroo, “to pick something up for me.  Yahaba was supposed to do it, but he had to bail.”

“Why send Shigeru on stupid errands?” Oikawa groans, “This is why you can’t be in charge, you have absolutely no instinct for how to effectively use human resources.”

Oikawa and Daishou dissolve into another argument, and it takes another one of the crew members intervening to finally bring their informal meeting to order.  Daichi always thought Suga was chaotic, but he looks as rigid as the Prime Minister next to these guys.

Daishou sends two crew members out to do routine surveillance of the National Museum’s back entrance, to check for any anomalies – outside contractors, unregistered vehicles, the works.  Kuroo and Daichi, on the other hand, are dispatched to pick up some mystery item for Kusudama.

“Why can’t I go?” Oikawa frowns at Daishou, tapping his foot against the dirty warehouse floor, “You and Kuroo can spend some time together instead.”

“Nice try, but you’ll have to be parted from your boyfriend for the day,” Daishou snorts, gesturing for Oikawa to follow him.  There’s a car waiting for them outside that hadn’t been there before; another perk of working for Kusudama.  Daichi waves goodbye and pretends the frustrated pout on Oikawa’s face is just for show.  They really haven’t spent much time together this past week, and it’s starting to make Daichi itch.  (He makes a note to look up the symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome when he gets home.)

It’s a nice day, so Kuroo and Daichi decide to walk.  Whatever it is they’re picking up, it’s just a few streets down, and it feels good to get some fresh air in his lungs after so many nights in crowded surveillance vans or breathing in the air of some different dusty basement.

Kuroo sidles up next to Daichi, quiet and natural, like he was meant to be there, “So.  You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Cool, excellent.  What are we not talking about, again?”

Daichi can’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth, “You’re the one who brought it up, idiot.”

“Brought what up?” Kuroo hums.

“ _It!_   You know!”

“Ah,” Kuroo lets out a long puff of air, “ _It_ , how could I be so foolish.  Well, I’m glad we’re crystal clear on that.”

“Kuroo,” Daichi stops, pressing a hand to Kuroo’s forearm, half pushing him away, half pulling him in, “I promise you, this whole thing is not as complicated as you think it is.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s actually a lot more complicated than you think,” Daichi stifles a laugh at the way Kuroo’s eyes bug out, “Which is why I can’t really explain.”

Kuroo blinks, and it takes a second for his trademark smirk to spread across his face, “Well I guess that explains it.”

“Kuroo, I’m serious,” Daichi had forgotten how bothersome it was to constantly be craning his neck to look up at Kuroo’s face, how devastatingly easy it was from this angle to see every tremor and twitch of Kuroo’s face, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.  It wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to be involved at all.”

It's too honest, and Daichi would ordinarily choose his words more diplomatically.  But, for once, Kageyama isn’t listening in to his conversation with Kuroo.  He might as well take this opportunity to be just a bit forthcoming.

“Don’t be sorry,” Kuroo says, leaning down to nudge Daichi’s shoulder with his own.  He starts walking again, and Daichi stutters a bit as he follows him – that’s right, they still have a job to do, “If you were in trouble I would have gotten involved anyway.  That’s just how we are, right?”

He’s smiling, and Daichi breathes a sigh of relief, “That’s right.  Can’t seem to get rid of you, can I?”

“And you never will,” Kuroo says, a bit sad and so quiet that Daichi almost asks him to repeat himself, “Besides, have to keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks, but I’m sure Oikawa would have looked out for me whether I wanted him to or not.”  It’s the truth, and it slips out before Daichi can think any better of it, chilling the air between him and Kuroo. 

For a split second, at least.  Kuroo has never been good at holding a grudge, least of all against Daichi.  So, he laughs, mutters a little _I guess_ , and tries to fit into the new equilibrium between them, a new tightrope to walk on, both of them out of practice after a few years of minimal contact.  Whatever’s left between them is intact but split and frayed at the edges from lack of care.  (And Daichi’s never been a good tailor.)

He opens his mouth to say something, but Kuroo beats him to the punch, pointing to the edge of the block, “I’m guessing that’s what we’re picking up.”

Daichi whistles, arching a brow, “I thought criminals were supposed to be inconspicuous?”

Kuroo laughs, “I don’t know what kind of criminals you’ve been hanging out with lately, but we’re the flashiest motherfuckers alive.”

It’s a car.  And not just a car, but a Lamborghini, the dark blue paint job sparkling in the midday sun.  It’s parked on the corner, surrounded by bright orange cones, and a man in a light blue uniform shirt is leaning against it far too casually.  He catches Daichi’s eye as they walk up, and waves a clipboard at them, “One of you is Yahaba Shigeru?”

“No,” Kuroo reaches into his back pocket, “But we’re here to pick it up for him.  Here’s the paperwork.”

Daichi studies his reflection in the tinted driver’s side window as the attendant studies the paperwork.  Suga would kill him if he gave up the chance to ride this thing… but he certainly doesn’t need to be seen on the street by a fellow officer driving a flashy car with a known criminal in the passenger seat.

“You wanna drive?” Kuroo grins, dangling the keys in front of Daichi’s face.

But, on the other hand, “Yeah, I really, really do.”

 

 

+

 

 

This is where it all goes wrong.

 

 

+

 

 

Even in the lunch rush traffic, the Lamborghini drives like a dream.  Daichi thinks he might cry.

“I never understood why being into cars was a _guy_ thing,” Kuroo muses, fiddling with the radio to find his preferred station (soft pop, of course), “I never got into cars and that kind of stuff.”

Daichi snorts, “Yeah, you just got into illegal activity instead.”

“Low blow.  True, but low,” Kuroo says, “Besides, this car isn’t _that_ nice, is it?”

“Are you kidding?” Daichi almost takes his eyes off the road to balk at Kuroo, “The handling is incredible, I could steer this thing with one pinky, that’s how sensitive it is!  Plus, the acceleration, the engine power—”

“Okay, okay, you win!” Kuroo laughs, putting his hands up in defeat, “And you say _I_ geek out about stuff.”

“You do.”

“True again.  Just saying, I thought I heard a weird noise when you started the car.”

Daichi’s foot flexes on the gas, and they lurch forward a bit, dangerously close to rear-ending the car in front of them, “What did you say?”

 “Just a weird noise when you revved the engine, like a…” Kuroo scrunches up his face and makes a noise that could be described as _WHIRRRCLK_ , “You think something’s actually wrong?  I was kind of just fucking with you.”

The car goes quiet as Daichi thinks, cycling through the possibilities.  If the car was rigged—well, any normal car bomb would have gone off when he started the engine, or even when they opened the door.  But the car didn’t show any obvious signs of tampering, not even when Daichi opened the hood to admire the engine before they took off.  The brake lines were working fine, obviously not cut.  He’d been driving for close to thirty minutes with no indication that anything was wrong with the controls.  So, then, what was it?

The more Daichi thinks, the more he starts to hear.  Little fluctuations in the engine as he turns a corner, a squeak when he brakes at a stop light.  Something is ringing in his head, a quiet but repetitive sound, like raindrops on a steel pipe.  A steady heartbeat of _ping! ping! ping!_ that gets louder the harder Daichi tries to ignore it.

Kuroo frowns at the concern on Daichi’s face, the wrinkles starting to show on his forehead from years and years of worry lines, “It could be a GPS tracker.  Kusudama is unbelievably paranoid about that kind of stuff, has them installed in all of his cars.”

“Oh,” Daichi flexes his hands on the steering wheel, formerly white-knuckled, “That makes sense.”

That’s all it takes for his mind to unwind – that, and a reassuring look from Kuroo.  It’s almost too easy, the wave of calm that washes over him.  He drives them back to the drop point, and the ringing in his head gets so quiet that he can almost ignore it.

“Nice car,” Oikawa whistles as they pull up.  The sun is setting as they arrive in a small, empty parking lot outside an otherwise ordinary-looking office building on the outskirts of town.  Daichi knows because of Kageyama’s research that the building is owned by one of Kusudama’s shell corporations, but he’s never seen the interior.

“Don’t tell me you’re also a sucker for a nice car,” Kuroo groans.

“I appreciate all forms of fine art,” Oikawa says, lobbing a crude wink at Daichi, “Here, Testu-kun, I’ll give you a crash course.”

“No thank you!” Kuroo tries to dodge – unsuccessfully – out of Oikawa’s grasp.  He finds himself trapped under the crook of Oikawa’s arm, forced to listen as Oikawa rattles off the finer points of automechanics.  Daichi decides to leave them be, and heads across the parking lot to where Daishou is sulking, leaning against his own (comparatively plain) car.

“Could be friends if they weren’t so busy bickering over you,” Daishou says as Daichi hands him the keys to the Lambo.  There’s an edge of bitterness in his tone that Daichi decides to gloss over for the time being – he’s already given himself enough of a headache for the day.

“Warn me next time about the GPS device,” he says instead, “Nearly gave myself an aneurism trying to figure out if there was something wrong about the car.”

Daishou’s brow furrows, and Daichi’s stomach drops, “There wasn’t anything like that, express orders from Kusudama.”

Daichi barely registers Daishou’s response before he’s turning on his heel, darting off toward where Kuroo and Oikawa are still standing, admiring the car.  Oikawa’s popped the hood, and he must be giving Kuroo a crash course from the way Kuroo keeps nodding, looking, as always, like he’s taking mental notes.  They look friendly, they look happy – _Maybe Daishou was right_ , an intrusive thought worms its way into Daichi’s brain, _What if I’m the problem here?_

A rough-palmed hand grabs Daichi’s wrist, pulling him back, “What the fuck?” Daishou hisses.

“No time, something’s—” Daichi’s voice hitches, and he hates himself for it, hates the panic rising in this throat like bile, “Something’s wrong with the car!”

He wrests his arm out of Daishou’s grip, and goes to shout at Kuroo and Oikawa – were they always this far away?  Can he even reach them in time?  He shouts, or, at least, has the memory of shouting.  Something urgent – _Go!  Get away!  Fucking move, now, unless you want to get blown up!_

The closer Daichi gets to the car, the more he realizes his mistake, the signs he missed.  A nick in the paint at the bottom of the front hood, an errant wire disguised as a battery cable.  With Oikawa and Kuroo in front of him, eyes wide with half-recognition, all the problems jump out at Daichi with crystalline clarity.  Everything starts to look wrong when you’ve got something on the line.

“Move!!” Daishou is hot on Daichi’s heels, motioning for Oikawa and Kuroo to move.  They do, but with wooden movements lacking urgency, matching expressions of confusion.

Behind Oikawa, in the bed of the exposed engine, Daichi sees a small spark.  Just a flash of white so quick he might have missed it.  It’s too late.  They have to be faster, he has to get there _now_.  If he doesn’t—

Oikawa and Kuroo start toward Daichi, pushing off against the asphalt of the parking lot.  They both dive, hands outstretched.  _Save him,_ a voice deep in Daichi’s mind intones, and his body goes taut like a bowstring.

Daichi grabs Oikawa’s hand, and the world goes up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one dies dw i'm just a melodramatic binch


End file.
